The Decoy Wife
by darnedchild
Summary: Sherlock needs a decoy wife for a case; and Molly is more willing to help than she wants to admit. It might have something to do with his chosen disguise.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Yet again, thanks to Lilsherlockian1975 for beta'ing this thing for me.

 **The Decoy Wife**

"Molly, what do you know about being an accountant's wife?"

She lifted her head from her microscope, bemused. "Idle curiosity or are you looking for something specific?"

Molly swivelled to face the door Sherlock had just come through, and nearly fell off her lab stool. "Oh my God, what did you do?"

His hair had been combed back and tamed until there was hardly a trace of his usual curls. His suit looked odd, almost as if it was a size or two larger than normal. As if it had been purchased off the rack at a department store.

It was clearly Sherlock and yet . . . not.

"I took a case, obviously." He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a pair of dark rimmed glasses; and a kink Molly hadn't even known she'd possessed had blossomed fully-born into her brain.

And lower.

Much lower.

Sherlock slipped the glasses on, and Molly's mouth watered.

He looked at her oddly (she must look ridiculous, gaping at him like a deranged fish), then down at his suit jacket and grimaced. "It's not up to my usual standards, I know. However, I felt it would be more in keeping with an average middle class accountant from Ipswich than Spencer Hart and Dolce & Gabbana."

"Yes, that-that's probably true. Yes." And now she was stuttering again. Molly wanted to smack herself in the forehead for acting so silly, but the man who already had a starring role in several of her favourite fantasies had just become a headliner in one or two very specific naughty thoughts and she couldn't help being a tiny bit distracted.

"So. Wife?"

Molly blinked several times until she caught back up with the conversation. "Oh, right. I would assume they're just like any other kind of wife. I suppose it would be helpful if they knew something about maths, but I don't imagine it would be a requirement to a happy marriage."

Sherlock frowned at her. "What does that have to do with anything?"

Now it was Molly's turn to frown. She hated it when he got that snippy tone with her. If he didn't currently look like an extra helping of sex on legs with those glasses, she might very well have told him she was busy and to go bother John. "You asked me what I knew about an accountant's wife."

"That was earlier." He waved his hand dismissively. "We've moved on from that."

"We have?" Did she miss something while she briefly imagined him wearing those glasses and a pair of designer boxer briefs and absolutely nothing else? She was willing to admit it was possible.

He rolled his eyes and reached into another pocket in his suit coat. He pulled a brochure free and tossed it on the workstation beside her. "Weekend marriage retreat, for couples who are having trust or intimacy issues. Two and a half days of counselling and seminars that are supposed to save a marriage in crisis."

Molly picked up the brochure and looked at the smiling couple with unnaturally white teeth and perfect hair on the cover. They appeared to be standing in front of a large, lovingly restored Victorian home somewhere picturesque. "They look cheerful. Are they supposed to be a success story?"

"In a way." Sherlock stepped closer to take the brochure from her hand, then he flipped it open and pointed to the blurb at the top of the page. "They're the owners and head counsellors. Apparently, they're teaching the secrets to their marital success, for a hefty sum."

She continued to skim over the rest of the information. "And your case?"

"Brother of one of the staff hasn't heard from his sister in three weeks. He didn't worry at first because there is almost no cellular signal on the retreat compound and the phone lines occasionally go out if it storms. However, she's never gone more than two weeks without a call or an email before."

Molly handed the brochure back. "Seems pretty straight forward, why do you need to pretend to be an accountant from Ipswich when you can just visit as Sherlock Holmes and ask to see her?"

"The last few months Anna had mentioned seeing someone, although she never gave her brother a name. The last time they spoke, she seemed upset and told him she'd be coming home after the latest session ended. Then nothing."

That didn't sound good. She could have changed her mind about staying, but the chances of that were fairly slim if Sherlock was interested enough to take the case. "You think something happened to her."

"I do." He tucked the brochure back into his suit coat, then leaned his hip against her workstation. "So, I'll ask again. Wife?"

It took three full beats of her heart for Molly to fully understand what he meant. "Have you lost your mind? I can't go undercover as your . . . as an accountant's wife!"

"Why not? You came with me on the Sandusky case."

She could see a hint of a pout already forming on his lips.

"You needed me to sit in a car and watch a door in case anyone tried to enter the building while you were poking around inside."

Now he looked annoyed. "I was not 'poking around'. I was conducting a very methodical search for evidence."

"For an hour and a half. While I sat in a freezing car with nothing to do but imagine various ways to murder you and not get caught. I came up with six, by the way."

He opened his mouth, then immediately shut it. After a long moment, he tried again. "I took you out for supper after, that should have warmed you up."

The fish and chips had been rather nice. "Still, sitting in a car pretending to be invisible is not the same thing as pretending to be married to-to someone."

Sherlock huffed. "You were engaged, just do whatever you and whatshisname did." His gaze fell to her left hand and then jerked to the side. "We're supposed to be having marital problems, perhaps it would be best to just stick to the sort of things you two did toward the end of your relationship."

The urge to tell him to bugger off grew ever stronger. "You mean fight bitterly and then have energetic make up sex on whatever surface was closest at the time?"

His eyes snapped back to hers, and he almost appeared to flush.

Molly continued. "Because that is a thing that definitely will not be happening if I agree to this insanity."

He swallowed hard enough that she could hear it. "The fighting?"

"The sex, you dolt. I'm fairly positive fighting won't be an issue; all you'll have to do is open your mouth."

For a second she thought he was going to retaliate with something scathing (perhaps an observation about how there had been a time when she wouldn't have been opposed to having sex with him) but he bit back whatever he'd been about to say and settled for, "Does that mean you'll do it?"

"Yes," Molly sighed. "But you owe me big because I had plans for this weekend."

"You were going to watch 'Pride and Prejudice' on DVD, drink a bottle of bargain basement red wine, and eat a tub of double fudge ripple ice cream."

"It was 'Sense and Sensibility' and I wasn't planning to do that until Sunday. I had other plans for Saturday." She glared. He ignored it. "Meena and I are going to start taking a cookery class."

Sherlock's brow furrowed in confusion. "You already know how to cook, why wou—Oh. You want to meet men."

Molly rolled her eyes and turned back to her microscope. "I know how to cook things that have instructions on the back of the box. I'd like to learn how to prepare something a bit more complex."

"And meet men." He sounded bitter. Why did he sound bitter?

"Would it make you feel better if I told you the class is entirely made up of women?" She cast a side-eyed look toward him.

"Is it?"

"No." Molly shook her head and then leaned into her scope, hoping he'd catch the hint. "Text me the details and let me know what sorts of clothes I'll need to bring. I've got to get back to work if I want to get all this done before the end of my shift."


	2. Chapter 2

**Part Two**

Molly's day had started far too early. She'd found someone to cover her Friday shift and spent the morning packing a bag for the weekend. Then she'd taken the tube to the train station where she met Sherlock. He was already dressed as his accountant persona, complete with the glasses that made her want to push him against the nearest wall and snog him senseless.

 _Oh God, it was going to be a long weekend._

Per his instructions, she had worn a pair of nice dress slacks and a relatively plain (for her) blouse for the trip to the retreat; but he'd told her to pack whatever she'd feel most comfortable in for the rest of the weekend, as long as she had something appropriate for the sessions that were offered. Apparently one of them involved a long hike in the woods to enjoy 'nature'.

Sherlock had spent the entire train ride with his eyes closed, lost in his mind palace.

Molly had spent the entire train ride trying desperately not to stare at him and drool.

When the train slowed to pull into the station, Sherlock's eyes had popped open (quickly enough that Molly was fairly certain he'd caught her ogling him, but he didn't say anything and she wasn't about to bring it up). He quickly gathered both of their suitcases and followed her off the train, playing the dutiful husband as they stood with a group of other couples waiting on a Happy Hearts representative to escort them to a bus.

They settled into their seats on the bus (Sherlock let her sit next to the window so he could stretch his much longer legs into the aisle) and prepared for the hour-long journey to the retreat. The bus had barely begun to move when the woman in front of them turned around.

"Hi. I'm Marcy. This is Jonathan." The man, presumably her husband, grunted and continued to read his novel without bothering to look up.

Sherlock leaned forward, one of his fake smiles firmly in place. "Scott, and this is Molly."

Marcy smiled in return and offered Molly her hand over the back of the seat. "How long have you two been married?"

Again, Sherlock answered before Molly could even open her mouth. "A year and a half."

"Oh." Marcy's expression melted into (slightly gleeful) sympathy. Molly could already tell the woman was the sort of busybody who lived for juicy gossip. "That's not very long at all. You did the right thing, dear, signing up for Happy Hearts," she told Molly.

"Actually, I had nothing to do with it," Molly countered with an annoyed look toward Sherlock. "Scott arranged everything. I didn't even find out about any of this until this week. He's, uh, he's always doing things like that." Which was part of the story they'd worked out via texts, and also completely true. He was always springing things on her at the last minute. Vitally important (to Sherlock) tests that needed to be run in the lab, requests that she stay late so he could look at a body (he hated working with the other morgue staff almost as much as they hated working with him), random texts asking her to bring a spare body part or two to Baker Street. True, he tended to bribe her with food in repayment now, rather than just assuming she'd jump at the chance to help whenever he called.

Sherlock's fake smile turned even faker, taking on a hint of strain. "Yes, well, I already apologized. No need to bring it up. Again."

Molly turned to face him directly. "I wouldn't need to if you'd stop doing it," she grumbled through clenched teeth.

"Okay, well," Marcy interrupted. "I'm sure Happy Hearts is just what you two need."

Molly and Sherlock gave her identical sceptical looks, but Molly offered, "I'm sure you're right."

"It's done wonders for Jonathan and I. We come back every year."

If the retreat was supposed to heal rocky marriages, Molly wondered, why would Marcy and her husband need to keep coming back? Wisely, she kept her thoughts to herself.

She glanced over to see that Sherlock had a pensive look on his face, and she suspected he was wondering the same thing.

Forty-five minutes later, they pulled into a circular drive and Molly got her first real look at the retreat.

The Happy Hearts Villa looked nice enough (even if the name was treacly sweet and nauseating), if not quite as picturesque as the brochure had made it appear. The surrounding countryside was beautiful, which more than made up for the bits of peeling paint on the window frames and the odd missing shingle or two.

Still, considering how much they charged per couple for a weekend, Molly thought they could have put a bit more effort into the upkeep of the house.

As they exited the bus they were greeted by an attractive man with too-white teeth (who reminded her of Gilderoy Lockhart from the second Harry Potter movie) and an equally attractive woman holding a clipboard. Molly recognized them from the brochure Sherlock had shown her.

Michelle checked names off her clipboard while Simon directed all five couples into the Villa. From there, the guests were escorted up to their rooms by several retreat employees. Sherlock finagled his way into being guided by the only female staff member, and as they made their way up the stairs he drew her into friendly small talk.

By the time they made it to their room, knew her name (Jenny) and how many staff were employed at the retreat (usually ten, sometimes more and sometimes less). He'd even found out where the staff rooms were located. Molly had no clue how he'd done it, but somehow he'd managed to charm the other woman without sounding like a complete creeper.

She figured it out soon enough when Jenny handed over the key to their room and Sherlock stepped into the hall to press a decent sized tip into Jenny's hand despite her not-at-all authentic protest. Molly stared at the queen size bed and worried her lower lip as Sherlock thanked the other woman for her assistance once more.

Through the partially open door Molly heard Jenny simper, "No, thank you, Mr Hooper. If you need anything during your stay, don't hesitate to call down to the kitchen and I'll be happy to help. No matter what time, day or night. If you need it, I can make sure you get it."

Molly didn't hear Sherlock's reply over the angry sound of blood rushing in her ears. She turned to face him as the door clicked shut.

"Well, that was rather cheeky."

"Hmm?" Sherlock crossed the small room and hefted his suitcase onto the bed. It bounced a bit, then settled atop the fluffy duvet.

"Jenny. Hitting on you," Molly huffed as she reached for her own case and put it on the other side of the bed.

Sherlock paused his unpacking and tilted his head to the side as if he were deducing her. She hated it when he did that. "Are you jealous?"

"What? No. No! It's just . . . As far as she knows you're supposed to be here trying to save our marriage, not scoring a hook-up with the first available female that crosses your path. What if we actually were married and I found out? Something like that could ruin our already shaky marriage."

He shook his head and headed toward the bathroom with his toiletry bag. "Were we married, I can assure you we wouldn't be in here in the first place."

She followed him, her own brightly coloured toiletry bag in hand. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Once he'd deposited his things on the counter next to the sink, leaving the opposite side for her use, he turned to face her. "I simply meant that unlike some of the men who come through this place, I would take my marriage vows seriously. If I were ever to find myself married, I should think that we—my bride and I—would be able to work through any trust or intimacy issues on our own, without resorting to Simon and Michelle's dubious advice. I have a great many faults, but I would endeavour to ensure that my wife was satisfied both emotionally and . . . physically."

Was it her imagination or did Sherlock blush a tiny bit as he said that last word.

She stepped out of the way when he tried to move past her. "That's-that's a good, uh, goal to have, in a marriage. In a relationship, in general, I would think."

"I thought so." He disappeared into the other room, leaving Molly to stare at her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

"We've only twenty minutes until we have to be downstairs for supper. Are you planning to finish unpacking, or are you going to do the boring female thing and fuss with your hair until we need to leave?"

And just like that, the spell was broken. She glared in his direction—even though there was no way he could see her—and stuck her tongue out at him.

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

Molly had to give Happy Hearts credit for their excellent food. The meal they were served for supper was delicious.

She noticed that Sherlock was especially attentive every time one of the female staff came into the dining room. With each one, he would catch Molly's eye and give a minute shake of his head to let her know it wasn't Anna.

Two other couples sat at their table. One was a couple in their early fifties, who kept smiling sweetly at each other. Molly wondered why they were at a marriage retreat when they seemed so happy together. Sherlock leaned over to whisper in her ear as one of the staff cleared the table in preparation for dessert, "He's impotent and she's considering taking a lover. Judging from the way she's brought up his business partner twice during the meal, I would say he's the most likely candidate."

Molly tilted her head toward the other couple and nudged Sherlock's foot with her own. As a different staff member deposited plates of rich looking chocolate cheesecake in front of everyone, Sherlock answered her unspoken question. "She thinks he's cheating on her. He's not, but he is nearing his breaking point with her jealous accusations."

"Oh, that's sad," Molly sympathized.

After dessert, Michelle announced that they'd be having a quick 'getting to know you' icebreaker (Molly hated those sorts of things) and then their first workshop on intimacy. She instructed all the couples to go to their rooms and change into something comfortable. "The sort of thing you'd wear to lounge around the house on a Sunday night."

"But nothing too risqué, let's keep it family friendly," Simon joked.

Something about his easy laugh and ready smile set Molly on edge.

Back in their room, which was beginning to get a little chilly, Sherlock indicated that she could have the bathroom to change. She asked him to see if he could do something about the heat while she was gone.

The bathroom was a rather nice space with lots of marble tile, an abnormally large tub, and a separate shower stall, but Molly found it slightly at odds with the faux-Victorian charm of their room. Almost as if two different decorators couldn't agree on a central theme.

She started to pull a pale-yellow vest over her head, then hesitated. Molly had deliberately chosen one of her nicer bras that morning—guaranteed to boost her confidence (and her cleavage). At the time, it had seemed like a good idea to dress the part of an accountant's wife from the inside out, but the scratchy lace and pokey underwire had become more and more annoying as the day went on. She bit her lip and looked at herself in the mirror over the sink. As Sherlock had pointed out before, she wasn't well endowed. She often went without a bra at home, and never thought twice about popping out to the corner grocer for a few minutes without one.

Did she dare to do it now?

Molly grinned and unhooked the offending article of clothing. Michelle had said to wear something suitable for lounging around the house, after all.

She finished changing and pulled open the bathroom door to find Sherlock impatiently waiting on the other side. As soon as she cleared the doorjamb, he pushed past her and shut himself inside.

His hair was mussed when he came back out, his curls had finally begun to fight back against his efforts to subdue them. Molly couldn't bring herself to tell him. His clothing was similar to things she'd seen him wearing around Baker Street a few times; sans the usual dressing gown, of course. He really did fill out a tee shirt magnificently.

Most importantly, he was still wearing the glasses. Molly had to bite her lower lip to keep from stuttering her way through what would surely be the most awkward seduction attempt ever.

She knew she was in trouble. She had always—always—been attracted to Sherlock, from the first moment she'd seen him barging into the lab at Barts as if he owned the place. He'd made her knees weak, her heart race, and certain other bits wet enough to dampen her knickers. Over the years, familiarity had managed to lessen that reaction considerably; but there was always that tiny little flicker of desire hiding in the back of her mind, waiting for a chance to flare up just in time to nudge her into a toe-curling orgasm at her own hand.

She'd always been very careful not to let thoughts of Sherlock invade her intimate moments with a partner. Mostly. There'd been a few times with Tom, towards the end; but she was fairly positive he'd never suspected. Probably.

But then Sherlock had to show up with those glasses and his sad attempt to look like your average number crunching boy next door, and all of her hard won control over her libido disappeared in a puff of lust fuelled smoke.

He was smart. He was fit. He had a smile that could make her melt from across the room. He had the sort of morbid sense of humour she enjoyed.

Oh, she had it bad.

"Molly?"

She blinked and looked up at the sound of her name. How long had she been standing there, ogling his biceps? Long enough that he'd noticed, surely. Nothing to do but go for a diversion and hope he would let her get away with it.

"Hmm?" Molly looked toward the alarm clock on the nightstand and tried to appear concerned. "Oh, look at the time. We should head downstairs. Wouldn't want to be late for the first session." She hurried toward the door before he had a chance to reply.

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

"There is more to intimacy than sex, although that is a very important part of a healthy marriage." Michelle and Simon made doe-eyes at each other before Michelle continued. "Physical intimacy helps build stronger mental and emotional intimacy; which, I think we can all agree, are all very vital to our relationships."

If she didn't know better (and she didn't) Molly would have suspected that Michelle had read that in a blurb on the back cover of a self-help book.

Molly turned her head to look at Sherlock, who was sitting directly behind her on the floor. He rolled his eyes as soon as he saw her, obviously in agreement with her assessment of Michelle's practiced speech.

Simon had directed the couples to sit on the floor, with the wives sitting between their husbands' legs. It was a bit juvenile, Molly thought, but the other couples seemed to be fine with it. It did explain why they needed to be in comfortable clothes though. You couldn't very well plop down on the carpet in a designer skirt and heels.

"Touch your partner. Hold each other's hand." Michelle leaned back against Simon and demonstrated. "Tonight is simply about touching."

Sherlock held out his hand, palm up, and Molly slid hers onto it. She knew their hosts were still talking, but all she could concentrate on was the way Sherlock's thumb rubbed soft circles against her skin. It was strangely hypnotic, but not in a sexual way. Almost comforting. She wondered if he even knew he was doing it.

"Molly, how does Scott's touch make you feel?"

She looked up to find nearly every eye in the room on her. "It's nice." Michelle nodded and gestured for her to continue. "His hands are warm. And strong. They make me feel . . . safe."

"Is that something you worry about, Molly? Feeling safe?"

"Sometimes." More often than she used to, certainly; ever since she'd discovered the truth about her ill-fated office romance with Jim. As if he could read her thoughts, Sherlock's free hand gripped her shoulder and pulled her back against his chest. She looked at the other couples and offered a tentative smile. "I mean, who doesn't, really?"

Michelle clapped her hands together and practically bounced in place. "This is a perfect example of what we've been talking about. Scott's touch inspires an emotional response in Molly. Marcy, tell us how Jonathan makes you feel."

Molly had no clue what Marcy said in reply as Sherlock leaned forward to put his chin on her shoulder and her entire world narrowed down to the quiet sound of his voice in next to her ear. "Excellent response. And you thought you wouldn't be able to handle undercover work. I almost believed you myself."

"It's true." She kept her voice equally low, not wanting to draw attention to their conversation. "I know it's probably silly, considering the things I've let you talk me into over the years, but I've always felt safe with you."

He went unnaturally still behind her, not even the subtle rise and fall of his chest against her back to indicate he was breathing. Eventually he cleared his throat. "I-I don't know what I'm supposed to say."

"It's all right, you don't need to say anything." The session seemed to have moved on to something else while they'd been whispering. "What are we doing now?"

"Looks like I should be rubbing your back. No doubt there's some special technique meant to make the experience deeply meaningful and _emotionally_ fulfilling, but I missed that part."

Molly covered her mouth to stifle her giggle. She quickly calmed herself when the woman from dinner who thought her husband was cheating sent a chastising glare her way.

The feel of his hands on her back, thumbs firm against her spine, was divine. For a moment, Molly forgot herself; stretching forward like a cat to give him more room to work his magic. She thought she heard him chuckle behind her as she fought not to melt into a boneless puddle.

She knew the exact moment he realized she was braless. His palms had been sliding down her back and they paused in their journey. His fingers spread wide, searching for a tell-tale sign that her undergarment had simply shifted out of place; and when he didn't find it, he snatched his hands back as if they'd been burnt.

A few seconds later he tentatively returned them to her shoulders and kept them there until Simon took over instructing the session.

"All right, ladies. It's time to think of your man, and how you can make him feel just as loved as you've felt this last half hour. Guys, put your arms around your lady and let her touch you."

Sherlock flattened his hands against her stomach and Molly shivered. She watched Michelle for a moment, noting how the woman was petting her husband's forearms and hands. It seemed harmless enough.

Molly let her fingers map the length of Sherlock's, tracing each digit. She had always loved his hands, had caught herself staring at them more times than she wanted to admit; but she'd never had a chance to touch them like this. The space between his fingers seemed irresistible for some reason. She weaved her own between his, and his hands curled slightly in response. His nails lightly scratched against her tummy. It was probably her imagination, but Molly thought she felt his cheek brush against her hair.

After a long moment, she detangled their hands and crossed her arms in front of her so she could massage his forearms like Michelle was doing with her husband.

"That's right. Soft, soothing motions," Simon encouraged the group. "Help him feel wanted and needed, ladies."

Michelle switched her attention to Simon's legs, and Molly followed suit.

She had to admit, it was nice to have such free rein to touch Sherlock. She wasn't likely to get the chance again and she wanted to make the most of it. His calves were firm. His thighs flexed when she ran her hands over them. She liked the play of his muscles under her fingers, loved the way he twitched as if he were ticklish. Molly grinned mischievously and dragged her nails against his inner thighs.

Sherlock jerked behind her, his breath rushing out between clenched teeth. His unexpected movement caused his groin to come in contact with her bum, and Molly realized that he was . . . firmer than he had been earlier.

He dropped his forehead against her shoulder with a low groan. "I apologize, that's-that shouldn't have happened." The embarrassment in his voice was painful to hear.

"No, no, it's good," Molly quietly rushed to assure him. "I mean, it's fine. It's to be expected, considering what we're doing and-and everything. Should I stop? I should probably stop."

She felt him shake his head, his soft hair rubbing against her cheek. "No. It's—You're right, it's a perfectly reasonable reaction to that sort of physical stimuli, and completely normal." Why did he sound as if he were trying to convince himself more than her?

For some reason, even though he was agreeing with her, Molly still found herself becoming annoyed. She took a deep breath and forced a pleasant expression onto her face so that no one would see just how peeved she was. "Exactly. It's not as if you're attracted to _me_ ," she quietly hissed. "You're a man. I could be anyone right now, and I'm sure you'd have the same reaction."

Not that she was bitter about it.

She was. She was extremely bitter about it.

"Damn it, Molly." He tightened his arms around her waist and jerked her back against him. "You know that's not true. This is-" She heard him bite out a soft, almost defeated 'fuck'; then his hips moved, pressing his erection harder against her bum. Sherlock lifted his head and she could feel his warm breath against her ear as he whispered, "This wouldn't have happened if it wasn't you."

"Oh," Molly gasped. She bit her lower lip and tried not to grin like a fool.

"Don't look so pleased with yourself. We're here for a case, not to—A case, Molly."

She nodded several times. "Oh, no, right. I wasn't—Yes, the case is definitely, definitely the most important thing. Right now."

Nope. No matter how cranky he sounded about this latest development, she was going to be pleased with herself. Obviously, she held no illusions that he would be driven wild with passion and insist on taking her against a wall as soon as they got back to their room; but she'd never had solid (very solid, judging by the erection she could still feel against her arse) proof that Sherlock was attracted to her before. As far as she was concerned, this was a momentous occasion that would be looked back upon fondly whenever she let herself indulge in a racy fantasy staring her favourite consulting detective.

"All right, everyone. One last exercise before we break for one-on-one time with your spouse," Michelle called out. "I want you to turn to your partner and look them in the eye. Tell each other 'I love you', and then kiss. Not a little peck on the lips, show them how much you mean those three little words."

Molly wasn't sure if she was excited or nauseated at the thought of finally—finally—kissing Sherlock. She got up on her knees and turned so that she was facing him. Molly kept her gaze firmly locked on his right ear. There was no way she'd be able to look him in the eye if she had to say . . . Not if she wanted to keep a tight hold on all those long-buried feelings she'd never been able to completely dismiss.

"Molly, I-"

She quickly interrupted him. "Don't. Just don't say it. Please." The intense panic that kicked in as soon as he started to speak was enough to tell her that she'd die a little inside if he told her he loved her and didn't mean it.

Sherlock lifted her chin so that he could look into her eyes. "I wouldn't do that to you. I promise. But I am going to have to kiss you, I'm afraid. I don't trust Michelle not to pull us into a remedial session for not completing our assignment if I don't."

Her lips quirked upward in a half-smile at his attempt to lighten the moment. "Fine. If I have to, I guess." She glanced toward the front of the room and saw that Michelle was indeed looking in their direction. "Better make it good, though. She's already giving us the eye."

"I think I can manage that." Sherlock briefly smirked before he closed the distance between them.

Molly's eyes fluttered shut at the first soft brush of his lips against hers. He returned, lingering over the second kiss before she felt the barest hint of his tongue against her lower lip. Molly gasped, her lips parting on instinct; and then Sherlock's mouth was firm against her own. His tongue sought hers, slipping between her lips with an intensity that made her shiver. His hands fell to her waist, fingers digging into the flesh of her hips, slowly drawing her closer.

"Excellent work, everyone! Have an enjoyable evening and we'll meet up again for breakfast at seven. Good night!"

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

It was a very quiet trip up the stairs.

Sherlock let them into their room and then softly closed the door behind them.

The bed, which had seemed perfectly adequate earlier, now seemed to be the size of a postage stamp.

Even though Sherlock had turned up the thermostat before they'd left for the intimacy session, the room was still chilly. She commented on it, and he crossed the room to tap at the ancient looking radiator.

"It's giving off a bit of heat, but I don't think it's going to get much better than this. I'll build a fire when we come back."

"We're leaving?" Molly asked.

"Obviously." He busied himself with digging through his suitcase. "Did you pack your swimsuit?"

"It was on your list." Sherlock raised his eyebrow and gave her one of his 'just answer the question' looks. Molly rolled her eyes in response. "Yes, I brought it."

"Good." He pulled a pair of swim trunks from his case and headed toward the loo.

"Sherlock," Molly called out. "Do-do you want to talk about what happened, with the . . . the thing?" _Erection, Molly. He had an erection and you are an adult, stop acting like an embarrassed school girl and call it what it is._

"Nope." He hurried into the bathroom without a single glance in her direction.

"Okay." Molly looked around the room as she unpacked her own swimsuit. There was no telly. A quick glance at her mobile confirmed what she'd already known, no bars and no wi-fi reception. Michelle and Simon were serious about wanting no outside distractions for the couples at the retreat. With a sigh, Molly sat on the edge of the bed to wait for her turn in the loo.

The bathroom sink came on, the water unnaturally loud to her ears. After a minute, Molly began to fidget, eventually tapping her toes against the carpet as she hummed a song she liked to sing when she was alone in the morgue sometimes.

Perhaps it was just her imagination but Sherlock seemed to be taking a long time to change. And the sink was still running.

She couldn't think of a reason why he'd need to keep the water running that long.

Unless he was using the noise to cover up the sound of something else.

Molly tapped her fingers against the duvet as she thought of what he might be doing in the bathroom that he didn't want her to overhear. Using the toilet was the obvious and most likely answer.

But what if he was doing something else?

What if he were . . . touching himself? Was he, even now, wrapping his fingers around his cock? Stroking himself to thoughts of her? Biting his lip to keep her from hearing his grunts and moans as he came?

"Oh God." Molly covered her face with her hands. She'd known pretending to be married all weekend would be rough, all that time together and fake touching and sharing a bed while she quietly lusted after a man who would only ever be her friend. But it was a thousand times worse knowing that Sherlock shared her attraction enough to get aroused from just a few mostly innocent touches. "Please, just let me get through this without embarrassing myself."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I was hoping to have this ready by Friday, but then I decided to ignore my WIPS and knit my son a snowman hat for winter and that threw me off for a few days. Better late than never, right?**

 **Part Three**

Her earlier suspicion that Sherlock might have been . . . relieving his tension in the bathroom seemed to be wrong as he exited the room looking just as tightly strung as when he'd gone in. His hair was damp and smoothed back from his face. She wanted to ask what he'd been doing in there, but his impatient expression made her hold her tongue.

He gestured for her to take her turn in the bathroom. As she passed him, Molly cast a discrete glance toward his groin before he finished shrugging into one of the plush bathrobes that had been left for them. She refused to admit she was a tiny bit disappointed to find that he was no longer aroused.

Molly's swimsuit was a fairly modest one-piece. It was several years old, but still in good shape as she rarely had a reason to drag it out of storage. Still, she couldn't help wishing for just a moment that she'd splurged for something new and a tiny bit racy as she finished tugging everything into place.

Sherlock jumped up off the bed as soon as she re-joined him. She adjusted her bathrobe—the twin to his—then followed him out into the hallway. He took her hand as they walked; and Molly let herself enjoy the contact even though she knew it was only a ruse in case one of the other couples or someone from the staff saw them.

"Isn't it going to be a little chilly splashing about in a pool this time of year?" she asked.

"The Villa sports a heated pool and a jacuzzi, both located in the recently renovated conservatory," Sherlock recited the information in a smooth impersonation of Simon's smarmy voice.

The conservatory was toasty warm (and dreadfully humid). Molly thought it was a nice enough space; although it seemed like most of those 'recent renovations' must have been purely cosmetic because even her untrained eye was able to pick out several bits of damp. Taking a closer look, she noted how some of the windows seemed to line up just shy of perfectly square, as if the foundation of the room had shifted a bit.

Even as Molly shrugged out of her robe and placed it on a poolside chair, Sherlock huffed in annoyance. "There's no one here."

"Were you expecting someone?"

"I overheard two of the other couples discussing the pool tonight." He pulled his robe off and stalked to the edge of the pool. "Being seen out here 'enjoying' ourselves would have lent credibility to our claims of getting lost should we run into a member of the staff later."

"We're going to get lost?" Molly dipped her foot into the water and decided it was warm enough, assuming they were actually planning to get in. Just because they were at the pool didn't mean Sherlock was going to let her swim.

"Unless we're particularly lucky and remain unspotted whilst I have a look around, yes." He cast another impatient look toward the conservatory door.

"Best to work with what we have then," he muttered, almost to himself. Before she could ask what he meant, Sherlock launched himself into the deep end of the pool. He surfaced and pushed his hair back from his face in a move that drew her gaze to the way water ran down his arms and chest, then frowned at her. "Why aren't you in the water?"

"I wasn't sure we were staying?" She still wasn't, to be honest.

He motioned for her to get in the pool. "I estimate we'll need to waste another ten to fifteen minutes out here before it would be credible that we came out to swim after the session, got overwhelmed with libidinous intentions and decided to return to our room, only to get too distracted snogging to pay attention to where we were going."

Molly blinked. Then blinked again as she processed his rapid-fire words. "If we get caught, you mean. The-the snogging is only if we get caught. Right?"

"Obviously." Sherlock's brow furrowed as he looked up at her. "Did-" He broke off to clear his throat as Molly lowered herself to the edge of the pool and then slid in. "Did you want to kiss me?"

She eased through the water, cautiously approaching him as if she were sure he would bolt if she moved too fast. He watched her, remaining unnaturally still as she stopped just out of hands reach. "I think you know the answer to that. You've always known." Whether he felt like acknowledging it was another matter entirely.

Before this weekend, she would have assumed the answer was always going to be no, but now . . .

Now he looked so unsure of himself. Of them. "What do you want me to do, Sherlock?"

His bark of self-mocking laughter startled her. "Now that is a loaded question."

They stood there for a long moment, silently watching each other. Slowly Sherlock raised his hand and reached for her. His fingers barely brushed against her cheek before the door to the conservatory burst open.

Another couple laughed as they came into the room. They waved hello at Sherlock and Molly, then kicked off their shoes and dropped their robes on the tile next to the jacuzzi.

By the time Molly looked back to Sherlock, he was swimming away from her; which was hardly a surprise considering the moment they'd just shared. She bit her lower lip and debated what she should do for a second, then made up her mind. He'd said he wanted someone to witness them 'enjoying' themselves, so she was going to do just that. Enjoy herself. One way or another.

She waited for him to finish another lap in the small pool, then stepped into his path. He pulled up short of swimming into her. The moment he stood, she splashed water in his face and then jumped as far away as she could, laughing the entire time.

He stared after her for a moment, then lunged. She went under when he managed to get a hold of her ankle, but she'd been expecting it and was already holding her breath. Molly twisted and turned, freeing her ankle and somehow managing to come up close enough to wrap her arms around his shoulders. Sherlock lowered his head just enough to press a chaste kiss against her lips, and then his hands were under her arms and she was flying backward into the water once more with a shriek.

Every time he managed to catch her, he'd kiss her again. Some of the kisses were as chaste as the first, some of them . . . weren't.

Molly was so distracted by her tussle with Sherlock that she didn't notice what the other couple were up to for several minutes. Sherlock had cornered her with her back against the pool wall, the water deep enough that she had to hold on to his arm to keep her head above it. Over his shoulder she could just see the jacuzzi and the couple practically devouring each other inside it. Sherlock noticed her wide-eyed expression and turned to look.

The woman moaned as the man's hand disappeared from view. She threw back her head and very enthusiastically told her husband that he was in 'just the right spot'.

Molly fought not to giggle at Sherlock's exaggerated grimace. He nudged her toward the pool ladder and helped her up with a gentle shove on her bum.

She lost the fight as they hurriedly dried off with some towels that had been left near the door and the noises from the jacuzzi reached porn star levels of ridiculousness. She was still quietly laughing as Sherlock draped her robe over her shoulders and dragged her back into the Villa proper.

"Can you believe them?" Molly asked, equal parts scandalized and embarrassed (for herself and for the other couple). "It's almost as if they wanted an audience."

"They did." Sherlock stopped at an intersection where the hall split in three directions. "It actually works well for us. They saw us in the pool, which is exactly what I was hoping for; and their lewd behaviour gave us an excuse to leave rather quickly. It's early enough in the evening that I'm hoping most of the staff will still be busy. This way." He took her hand and pulled her to the right.

They crept down a short hall until it dead-ended at a single door. Sherlock eased it open, peeked around, then gestured for her to follow him through. On the other side was another corridor, but this one wasn't nearly as bright as the others they'd passed through since arriving at the Villa. There were no antique tables with large flower arrangements, no lavish wallpaper and wainscoting. Just a long hall lined with several doors and another tee at the end.

"Staff quarters. There should be more around the corner." He softly knocked on the closest door, then tried the knob when no one answered. Before he ducked inside, he told her to signal if anyone was coming.

Molly tried to keep her attention on both ends of the hall as Sherlock travelled from door to door. All but one of the doors lead to a room that was barely half the size of the one she and Sherlock were staying in. The odd door at the end of the corridor (the only one on that side of the hall) lead outside, opening to the grounds behind the Villa. She could just see a large utility building near the treeline when Sherlock stepped back to let her take a quick look.

She kept anxiously shifting her weight from foot to foot, nerves and her still wet hair and swimsuit made her shiver. This was much more intense than just sitting in the car keeping watch during the Sandusky case. A dozen scenarios of how they would be discovered ran through her mind, each one progressively worse. Yet, somehow, they managed to turn the corner and finish looking through the last of the rooms without being interrupted.

He began to head back toward the main part of the house with Molly at his heels. "Did you find anything," she asked in a whisper.

He paused and turned to face her. "There is an unoccupied room; bed stripped, dresser empty. Whomever cleared the room wasn't particularly careful. Or they were in a hurry." He held up a small photo of a couple holding hands and a pair of children grinning beside them. "Found this stuck in the back of the nightstand drawer."

Molly moved closer to examine it, and then realized she had no real clue what Anna actually looked like. "Is that hers?"

"Most likely. I see a family resemblance with her brother in the man's face, probably their father." He tucked the photo into the pocket of his bathrobe. "If she left, I want to know where she went. And, more importantly, what has kept her from contacting her brother."

"Do you-"

Suddenly Sherlock grabbed her hand and used it to pull her against his chest. Before she could ask what he was doing, he lowered his head to hers. His lips pressed hard against her own as he backed her against the wall. Sherlock took advantage of her surprised gasp to slip his tongue into her mouth, and Molly's thoughts short circuited.

All she knew was the taste of him on her lips, the slide of his tongue against hers, the press of his warm body against her chilled skin. Her nipples pebbled against the still damp swimsuit. Molly reached up to grip his shoulders, trying to pull him down or her up; whichever direction that meant she could keep in contact with his mouth. He groaned when she nipped at his lower lip. Sherlock's hands dropped to her hips, then lower to her bum; his fingers dug into the flesh of her arse as he ground his growing arousal against her stomach.

Molly barely heard the discrete cough coming from someone just down the hall. Even as she pushed against Sherlock's shoulders, she was unable to keep from stealing one last kiss as he lifted his head. He looked as dazed as she felt as he turned toward their retreat host.

Simon flashed his toothy smile, although there seemed to be an annoyed edge to it. "Scott, Molly. I'm afraid you've wandered a bit off track from the guest areas of the Villa. Is there something I can help you find?"

Molly had to look away from him, and that's when she noticed the pair of young men in Happy Hearts uniforms at the other end of the hall. She had no idea how long they'd been standing there—or how much they'd witnessed—but neither one of them bothered to hide their smirks at the way Sherlock still had her pinned to the wall.

She pushed on his shoulders again and he finally stepped back, holding his hand out to her when she felt a little unsteady.

"Actually, Simon," Sherlock began. "We worked up an appetite in the pool and were hoping to find the kitchen to ask for a snack and something cool to drink."

Molly absolutely refused to turn around at the sound of one of the men behind them choking back a snort. There was absolutely no reason for her to be embarrassed, she hadn't _really_ been making out with Sherlock. It was just for the case.

And she was obviously deranged if she really believed any of that.

Simon's insincere smile turned into a knowing leer and Molly couldn't help feel a tiny bit dirty just for being in the same room. "I'll have someone bring a tray up to your room." He snapped his hand toward one of the men at the end of the hall. "Robert, please show our guests the way. We wouldn't want them to get lost again."


	4. Chapter 4

**Part** **Four**

The moment they got back to their room, Sherlock shut himself in the bathroom. She heard the shower come on almost immediately.

"And here we go again," Molly sighed. She was torn between storming the bathroom and asking—no, demanding—just what was going on between them, and acting as if there was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary about Sherlock Holmes snogging her breathless.

 _Screw it,_ Molly thought; finally coming to a decision after several minutes. There was no way she'd be able to sleep next to him in that bed if they didn't discuss what happened.

Even if he said it was an aberration, never to be repeated, it would still tell her where she stood with him. Yes, it would be a bit harder to work with him in the lab, now that she knew exactly what she'd be missing; but she'd become an old hand at keeping the occasional lust filled thought at bay when he was in the room. Mostly.

However, she was absolutely positive the sight of Sherlock Holmes standing in the loo doorway wearing a fluffy white towel wrapped around his waist, his hair still damp from his shower, was going to distract her at the most inconvenient times for the rest of her life.

"Jesus, Sherlock. Warn a girl."

He frowned, clearly confused. "Warn you of what?"

"That." She waved her hand in his general direction. "With the wet and the towel and the glasses . . . Why are you wearing the glasses?"

"Because Simon said he would be sending someone up with food, and they should be arriving right about-" Sherlock paused and tilted his head toward the door to the room just as someone knocked. "Now."

Molly shook her head as she moved to answer the door. "Could you be any more smug?"

Sherlock looked toward the ceiling, lips pursed as he considered it. "Possibly, but not by much."

She was still grinning when she pulled open the door; although her smile dropped when she recognized 'Any time, day or night' Jenny standing there.

"Hi, Mrs Hooper. Simon said you were feeling peckish. Should I bring it in?" Jenny pushed her way into the room before Molly could say anything. She deposited the tray on the small table next to a pair of chairs near the fireplace then turned to smile brightly at Sherlock. "Nice to see you again, Mr Hooper."

He nodded, not looking the least bit embarrassed about standing around in just a towel. "Hello, Jenny. What have you brought us?"

"I had the kitchen put together some fruit and cheese for you, and Simon sent up a bottle of his favourite red." Jenny beamed at Sherlock, and Molly couldn't help but feel as if she had somehow turned invisible.

"Sounds delicious. Doesn't it, Molly?"

"Delightful." Molly held the door open wider and titled her head toward it. "Well, I'm sure you've got plenty of things to do and we wouldn't want to keep you from them, Jessie."

The other woman frowned, but started to make her way to the door. "It's Jenny."

"Is it? Huh." Molly swept the door shut behind the other woman and took a deep breath before turning to find Sherlock inspecting the wine bottle.

"I very much doubt this is Simon's favourite anything. I could have picked up better at a petrol station." He set the bottle back on the tray and looked up at her. "That was uncharacteristically rude of you, Molly."

She sighed, although she knew he was right. "I get why you're wearing the glasses, but why couldn't you have put on some clothes before she showed up?"

"No time."

"You could have waited to shower until after-"

"No, I couldn't," Sherlock interrupted her. "The pool was over chlorinated, I needed to scrub it off."

"Okay." He had a wild-eyed, slightly panicked look on his face and Molly thought it best not to point out that he was obviously lying. "Well, I should probably go wash off the chlorine myself."

His shoulders slumped in relief that she wasn't pressing him for a more believable answer. "Good idea. Go ahead, the bathroom's all yours."

She grabbed her pyjamas (soft cotton and not a single kitten or bright fruit in sight, she'd made sure of that) and shut herself in the loo.

Pulling the clingy swimsuit from her body took some effort, but soon enough she was able to step into the shower cubicle. The walls were still wet, as if she needed the reminder that Sherlock had already been there. Naked under the water, hands sliding across his slick skin.

"Oh, God," Molly whimpered. If she wasn't careful, he was going to read every inappropriate thought she had in her expression the moment she stepped out of the bathroom.

"Right. Quickly then. Save the fantasies for when I get back home."

Fifteen minutes later she padded barefoot into the bedroom, comb in hand. Sherlock was sitting in front of the fire, staring at the flames as if he were hypnotized. He'd changed into a tee and a pair of lounge pants, but no sign of one of his usual dressing gowns. Perhaps Sherlock had decided that Scott the accountant wasn't the kind of man who bothered with a dressing gown. The glasses, thankfully, were nowhere in sight.

Molly plopped down in the chair next to him, and snagged a piece of cheese before she settled down to the business of combing the tangles out of her wet hair.

"Is the wine drinkable?" she asked, finally noticing that he had a half-full glass in one hand.

"Not as horrible as I expected." He set his glass aside for a moment to pour one for her.

She didn't think there was anything wrong with it, but then she wasn't a wine snob. Molly ate a slice of apple before returning to her hair.

Her glass had been topped off and more than half the fruit and cheese eaten before either of them spoke again.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" He took a final sip of his wine and set his empty glass on the table.

"Are we still not talking about—you know—earlier, when you-"

"Yep." He cut her off, obnoxiously popping the 'p'. "Not talking about it."

"It's just erection," Molly tried to reassure him. "Men get them all the time."

He jerked, turning his head to glare at her. "I don't."

Molly stared at him in disbelief. "Never?"

"Obviously not 'never'." Sherlock rolled his eyes and slumped down in the chair. "I may not cater to my body's every whim, but there are some things even I cannot control." He picked up the wine bottle as if he were considering a refill, then discarded it with a look of distaste. "The last several years, however, I have tried to keep that sort of thing confined to a few minutes in the shower when . . ." Sherlock trailed off, searching for the right words.

"When you get horny?" Molly offered before biting her lower lip to keep a goofy grin from spreading across her face.

Sherlock glared at her. "And that is exactly why we're not talking about it."

"Sorry. Sorry." She held up her hand placatingly. "Aroused. Is that better?"

"Not particularly." He dropped his head back against the chair, obviously uncomfortable. "Go to bed, Molly."

"Are you coming?"

He narrowed his eyes at her, as if trying to deduce if she had been attempting to make a joke or not.

She winced. "To sleep, I mean."

"No. I need to think." He closed his eyes and steepled his fingers against his chin, a clear Sherlock code for 'go away'.

Molly hesitated, unsure if she should try to say or do something to try to make things less awkward. When nothing came to her after a long moment, she did as he asked. She turned off the lights, quietly reminded him to tend to the fire before he fell asleep (if he fell asleep), and crawled into the bed.

As soon as she was settled in—pillows properly fluffed, duvet pulled up to her shoulders—she heard Sherlock's soft and a bit apologetic, "Goodnight, Molly."

"Night, Sherlock."

She had no idea how long she lay there, staring up at the heavily shadowed ceiling, her hands clenched together on her stomach in an effort to still the urge to fidget. Her mind raced with thoughts only to come back to the same one, over and over.

"For God's sake, whatever it is, just say it." Molly jerked at the sound of his voice, and lifted her head to see him leaning forward, elbows on his knees. "I can hear you thinking from all the way over here."

She briefly considered lying, but he'd know and she would still be plagued with that insidious thought that would not go away. She sat up, carefully tucking the duvet around her waist as the warmth of the fire wasn't quite enough to keep the chill out of the air on her side of the room.

"So." Molly paused to take a deep breath, not quite believing she was about to say the words on the tip of her tongue. "You masturbate in the shower?"

Sherlock huffed in annoyance. "Really? That's what you've been fussing over for the last ten minutes?"

"Noooo." She shook her head. "Well, yes."

"Is that a problem? Yes, I have—on occasion—brought myself to orgasm in the shower. You said yourself that sort of thing is perfectly normal."

"Oh, it is! It's just, that's not really the sort of information I'm used to hearing about you. Or from you. I mean, I don't really talk about that with any guy, usually. I've never thought about—for instance—John's preferred wanking routine; so, this is sort of stuck in my head. Sorry." She wasn't sure why she was apologizing, honestly. He was the one who got into details in the first place, it really wasn't her fault.

"In the morning before he got out of bed, if his time at Baker Street was an accurate example. He may have changed things up once he moved in with Mary."

"Ugh!" Molly grimaced. "Why would you tell me that? Now I won't be able to look him in the face the next time you bring him to the lab."

He went as still as a statue for a long moment. "That wasn't—You didn't react that way when you heard about my, erm, habits."

"Well, that was different, wasn't it." She picked at the duvet cover. "That was John and you are . . . You."

"Why should it be any different? Because you're attracted to me?"

Molly shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe?"

She got the impression that he was straining to see her face in the darkened room, that he wanted to read her expression, deduce something important to him. She continued to fidget under his scrutiny. "What is it now?"

"I didn't say anything!"

Molly thought he rolled his eyes, but she couldn't be certain in the poor lighting. "You didn't have to."

"I'm sorry. I'm trying to think of something else, I swear; but . . ."

He pinched the bridge of his nose, and she fought the urge to give in to a fit of nervous giggling. "What embarrassingly personal information do you want now? What brand of body wash I use for lubricant?"

Now that he brought it up . . . She snorted at the poor phrasing her mind had chosen. Besides, if she were really curious—and she might be now, not that she was going to admit it to him—she could just take a quick peek behind his shower curtain the next time she was visiting Baker Street.

"Fine, since you keep pestering me to tell you. How often do you do it? Is it just once a year, every other week, once a day?"

Sherlock sighed, almost resigned, as if he realized she really would be wondering about it all night if he didn't answer. "It used to be once a month, on average. I didn't exactly schedule it into my calendar."

"Used to be?" She'd picked up on that quickly enough.

There was a long, awkward silence before he spoke again. This time he was so quiet she had to strain to hear him. "I may have begun to indulge a bit more often over the last year or so."

"Any, uhm, any reason in particular?"

Sherlock growled her name in a warning. "Why are we still talking about this? How would you feel if I asked you the same sort of questions?"

Obviously, he expected her to blush and issue some sort of maidenly squeak as she hid under the covers or stuttered an indignant "How dare you?" Wasn't he in for a surprise.

Although, in all fairness, she did blush. Molly couldn't help but be a little thankful that the bed was covered in shadows as it felt like her cheeks were burning.

"I've got nothing to hide. I've done it in the bath. You know, if it's been a long or stressful day and I need to relax. Usually, though, I prefer the bed. So I can stretch out. Get comfortable. Don't have to worry about falling asleep after, if I'm already in bed." She hoped he didn't notice the way she pressed her thighs together, more than a little turned on.

"The bed. Your bed. Where I sleep when I stay over. That bed?" He reached for the bottle of wine and poured a hefty amount into his glass.

"You're the one who insists on taking my room every time, so you can't blame that on me. Where did you think I did it?"

Sherlock tilted the wine glass to his lips and drained it in one go, then carefully set it back on the table. "I-I hadn't really given the matter any thought. Until now."

"Well, now you know," Molly huffed. "Good luck getting that out of your head next time you need a bolthole. Just like I'll never be able to use the bathroom at Baker Street without picturing . . . You know what, I'm suddenly very sleepy. Night!" She flopped back against her pillows and pulled the duvet as high as it would go, hoping—no, praying—that Sherlock would just let it go.

Unfortunately, she'd been telling the truth. Every time she visited him from now on, she'd wonder if he'd recently 'indulged'; and what could have possibly driven him to it, if he had. In the last few hours she had discovered that he was attracted to her, enough to get aroused on two separate occasions in one day! Did that mean there was a possibility that he might have thought about her once or twice while he was 'indulging' himself?

Molly squirmed, and tried not to whimper.

Heaven knew she'd thought of him plenty of times. Pictured him between her legs. Imagined him thrusting into her over and over. Saying her name in that deep, gorgeous voice of his as he came.

"Molly."

 _Oh God, just like that._ Her own voice was a bit unsteady and husky as she replied. "Yeah?"

"Are you aware that your respiratory rate has increased?"

How could he even tell from all the way over there, unless he'd been _completely_ focused on her. That made her shiver. "Yeah."

He shifted toward her, nearly perching on the edge of the chair. "You're restless. I can hear you shifting around under the duvet."

It wasn't a question, but she answered anyway. "Yeah. I am aware of that, too. Very aware."

"Those are-" He paused to clear his throat. "Those are signs that you are either uncomfortable with the current topic of discussion or aroused."

"Definitely one of those two, yes." As if he didn't already know.

She propped herself up on her elbows so that she could see him more clearly. "What about you? Are you . . .?"

Sherlock drove both hands into his hair, messing up his curls. Finally, he shook his head and laughed, quick and almost angry. "If I was half as intelligent as I claim to be, I would tell you no and go take a walk outside to cool off."

"But you're not," Molly whispered. She didn't expect him to answer. She wasn't even sure he'd been able to hear her.

"No, I'm not. I'm not even sure what I'm doing right now, this is not-this is a minefield to me, Molly. I know I need to tread carefully, but I haven't a clue which way to turn. All I know is that I . . . want."

The crackle and snaps of the fire seemed unnaturally loud in the room as they both considered the situation. Molly knew the easiest option would be to lay back down and try to sleep, to wait until they were home to discuss it again; but she didn't want to wait. She wanted Sherlock, there was no point in even trying to deny that; but she wasn't sure she ready to have sex with him, regardless of the many and varied fantasies she had had about him over the years.

 _Was she?_

Perhaps, though, there were other things they could do that would ease the warm ache growing in her core.

Molly sat up and took a deep breath. "Have you ever done it with someone else in the room?"

"Masturbate?" She nodded. "I have, but it was never-" She got the feeling he was searching for the right words. "It was perfunctory and not particularly erotic, simply a means to an end. To do what needed to be done so I could concentrate on other things. You?"

"A few times. It was different for me. Like foreplay. You know, a preview of what was to come eventually."

"Just so there's no misunderstanding on my part, you brought this up because . . .?"

She rolled her eyes and dropped back against the pillows behind her. "Because you've got me all hot and bothered, and I'm at the point where I would really like to have an orgasm, and it just seemed rude not to ask if you'd like to join me. If you're not interested, just say you're not interested and I'll go have a bath or something!"

"I'm interested!" Sherlock sprung up from his chair. "I'm very interested. Should I stay here or would you prefer I come over there? Over there would probably be better, don't you think?"

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather do it in the shower?" Molly joked, suddenly nervous even though this encounter, for want of a better word, had been her suggestion.

He paused long enough that she realized he was actually considering it. "I imagine that would require a larger shower stall than we've got here. The tub, however, seems to be built with two people in mind. Perhaps next time?"

Somehow, hearing him say that sent a wave of warmth through her that had nothing to do with arousal. Part of her had honestly thought this moment of insanity might have been a onetime thing, something that happened at Happy Hearts and was never spoken of again. If Sherlock was already thinking ahead to 'next time', surely that was a good sign?

"You're right, no need to get complicated the first time." She bit her lip and clutched at the duvet as he crossed the small room. He was backlit by the fire as he sat on the edge of the bed, and Molly felt her heart begin to race. "This is just the first time, right? I mean, we are going to, again? I mean, not necessarily this specifically, but something similar. With orgasms and-and will there be a second time?"

God, she sounded like an insecure idiot. She ducked her head and closed her eyes, embarrassed beyond words.

She felt the bed dip as he leaned closer to touch her jaw and gently lift her head so she could see his face in the dim light from the fireplace. "Unless something goes tragically wrong, I'm hoping it will be the first of many. In case I haven't made it clear, I do care for you, Molly. Far more than just friends."

He brushed his thumb across her lower lip and ducked his head a bit so he could look her in the eye. "I would hope from your question, that you are also interested in something more than a quick fumble? I'm afraid I'm not the sort of man who enters into these things lightly. Not anymore." His eyes seemed to darken for a moment.

Molly pressed a soft kiss to the pad of his thumb, wanting him to come back from wherever his memories had taken him.

"Obviously, I'm not demanding a declaration of love and a proposal of marriage before I let you get my trousers off." He waited for her to finish giggling to continue. "But if you can't see the potential for a future—however odd and unconventional—between us, then now would be a good time to-to let me down gently, as they say. Before we pass beyond the point of no return and ruin our friendship."

"I don't want to let you down," Molly whispered, not quite believing this was really happening. That Sherlock was saying he wanted a relationship. With her. Molly Hooper.

He closed the short distance between them and brushed his lips against hers. She could feel his smile in the soft movement. Molly put her hands on his shoulders and pulled him closer still. It wasn't long before their kisses become longer. Firmer. Wetter.

Sherlock pushed the bedding out of the way, shoving it toward the bottom of the bed. She hummed her appreciation for his initiative against his neck. Her teeth grazed his throat, and he gasped. Soon enough, he pressed her back against the bed and followed her down.

Molly tugged at the back of his tee, raking the material upward until her fingers found his skin. He groaned against her lips, nipping at the bottom one. Sherlock braced himself above her with his forearm tucked against her. His free hand found the hem of her vest and dipped beneath the soft material. Her skin tingled as his fingers slid upward until they ghosted against the underside of her breast. Her body arched toward him when his palm grazed her nipple.

She scratched her nails against back. Sherlock's hips surged forward and she felt his firm erection against her thigh.

"How-how do you want to do this?" he panted against her ear before drawing the lobe between his teeth.

 _Hard and fast_ , was her first thought, but she bit it back. That wasn't what they'd agreed to; although she nearly second guessed herself when he circled her nipple with his thumb. At this rate, she'd be begging him to fuck her before the morning. "Naked?"

"Naked is good," Sherlock quickly agreed. He sat up and pulled his tee over his head. Her mouth went dry at the sight of his bare chest, then it positively watered when he reached for the drawstring of his lounge pants. His hands stilled before he could push the waistband down, and she nearly protested. He frowned, doubt creeping into his voice. "You're not getting undressed. Why aren't you getting undressed?"

Molly blinked and lifted her hips to wiggled her pyjamas down her legs before kicking them the rest of the way off. She wasn't quite ready to remove her vest, the unwelcome echo of hurtful words from so long ago teased at the back of her mind. Even though he'd had his hand up her shirt and seemed satisfied with what he found there, she hesitated at taking that last step.

Unsurprisingly, he seemed to know what she was thinking. Sherlock's hand found one of hers, tightly wrapped around a fistful of the pale-yellow cotton. "It's okay. Another time."

He stood up and finished pulling his lounge pants off. Molly ached to touch him.

"My God, you are beautiful."

Sherlock laughed, rather smugly she thought. "Shouldn't that be my line?" He crawled back into bed and reached for her.

It took everything she had to hold him at arm's length, her palms pressed against his chest. "Oh no, you stay where you are. If you come over here and kiss me again, and I'm afraid I'm going to forget myself and jump you."

Sherlock froze. She could practically hear the thoughts racing through his mind, analysing pros and cons and probabilities. Almost thirty seconds later, he finally blinked. "Is that such a bad thing?"

She was tempted. So tempted. And judging from the way his cock seemed to grow even harder, so was he.

"No?"

He grinned and reached for her again, but Molly's hands continued to hold him back. "Do you have any protection?"

Most of him deflated—but not his erection, she was pleased to see—and he sat back on his heels. "I don't suppose you're on birth control?"

Molly lowered her arms and nodded. "I am, but better safe than sorry."

"Fair enough. All right, so we wait. In the meantime, I believe you had a brilliant idea for us to try?"

"Brilliant, is it?" Molly tilted her head and smiled coyly.

"Oh yes." Sherlock plumped up the pillows on his side of the bed and shifted until he was leaning back against them, his long legs stretched out in front of him. "Shall we begin? Show me what you like, Molly. Show me how to make you come."

The things his voice could do to her.

Slowly, she parted her thighs and bunched her vest up around her waist, exposing the small patch of curls above her cleft. Sherlock drew in a sharp breath as her fingers danced along her thighs, briefly dipping between them before continuing on. Her other hand moved up to cup her breast, capturing her nipple between two fingers and gently pinching.

"What do you like? What do you do in the shower? What do you think about?" Molly asked her breath hitching as she increased the pressure on her nipple.

It was as if he couldn't decide what to focus on, his gaze kept alternating from her breasts to the hand between her thighs.

"Sherlock?"

His own hand wrapped around his cock and pulled upward in one long stroke. She saw his eyelids flutter briefly at the sensation. "I used to I try to get it over with as quickly as possible; but ever since—oh God—I've wanted to-needed to make it last."

Molly caressed her clit; slow, circular motions that made her toes curl. "Since what?"

His eyes flicked up to hers as he continued to stroke himself. "Since you broke up with your fiancé and started letting me sleep in your bed."

Her breath caught. Images of an aroused and naked Sherlock laying in between her mint green sheets immediately flooded her mind.

"After a night at your place I'd hurry home, the memory of your scent surrounding me, already hard before I had a chance to walk through the door. Sometimes I'd stand under the cold water and will the urge away; but sometimes, sometimes I didn't have the willpower to deny myself, and I would come so hard my knees threatened to buckle."

She wasn't surprised at how wet she was when she finally let her fingers slip lower, teasing her entrance with the lightest of touches. "I've imagined you standing in the doorway to my bedroom, watching me do this. I'd pretend to be embarrassed at getting caught, but we'd both know I wanted you to find me."

Sherlock groaned and gripped his cock harder, moved his hand faster as he gathered drops of precum when he passed his thumb over the head. "I wouldn't have been able to just watch. I would have joined you on the bed, made you scream my name when you came." His free hand slid across the space between them until he just barely brushed against her hip. "I want to touch you, Molly."

Her thighs parted even more as she silently reached for his hand and guided it into place. The angle was awkward, but the first glide of his fingertips across her sensitive flesh made her tremble. She urged his hand lower, showing him how to touch her, how to make her gasp. First one, then two of his fingers slid inside her, and Molly nearly came off the bed.

He abandoned his eager cock and used his free hand to caress her waist. He hesitated before burrowing his hand under her vest. Sherlock silently asked permission with his extraordinary blue eyes, and she nodded her consent. The two fingers sought out her nipple at the same time two more began to thrust in and out of her soaking channel. Somehow, his thumb began circling her clit in a delicious counterpoint; and if she could have strung to thoughts together, Molly would have marvelled at his ability to multitask.

As he drove her closer and closer to her peak, she could feel him rocking against her hip; his erection hot and insistent. He moaned her name when she slipped a hand between their bodies and wrapped her fingers around his cock. Sherlock shuddered and leaned over to mouth her breast through her vest. His teeth gently closed around her nipple, then not so gently, and Molly saw stars as she came.

He kept sucking on her breast and working her clit until she physically pushed his hand from between her thighs. She heard him make a noise—almost a whine from the back of his throat—and realized that she'd stopped stroking him while she'd been distracted by one of the best orgasms she'd had in months, if not longer.

Molly rolled to her side and endeavoured to make up for neglecting him. Her free hand reached between his thighs to cradle his scrotum while the other teased over the head of his cock. Sherlock's head fell back against the pillows. He wrapped his hand around hers and begged her to grip him tighter, stroke him faster.

"Close, fuck, I'm close-" She felt his balls tighten seconds before he pulsed in her hand and he came growling her name.

Sherlock sprawled back against the bed and tried to catch his breath. He finally managed to turn his head and grin at her. "Beautiful and brilliant."

"You or me?" Molly asked, a bit out of breath herself. She knew his stomach had to be wet and sticky, but he didn't seem to care at the moment.

"You. Always you."


	5. Chapter 5

**Part Five**

Her hair caught on something when she tried to roll over, causing Molly to grimace in her sleep. No matter how many times she'd tried to discourage Toby from curling up on her pillow, the cuddly cat insisted on getting tangled in her hair.

"Bugger off," Molly mumbled, reaching up to try to nudge her cat away.

"Rude," came the answer in a drowsy, sleep roughened version of Sherlock's voice.

Molly's eyes snapped open. She turned her head, hissing as she pulled her hair free, to find the consulting detective spread out, face down, across two-thirds of the queen-sized bed. His arm was tucked under the edge of _her_ pillows, yet he'd somehow managed to weigh down several locks of her hair while she'd slept.

Last night hadn't been a dream.

Almost as if he could hear her thoughts, Sherlock lifted his head. "Good morning."

"Is it?" she couldn't help asking. What if he changed his mind in the harsh light of day? What if he decided last night was a mistake?

Sherlock blinked, visibly confused. He rolled onto his side to face her. "I thought it was. Did something happen after I fell asleep?"

Molly shook her head. "No. It's stupid, but I just wasn't sure . . ." she trailed off.

"I am."

Just like that, two simple words soothed her doubts.

The alarm clock began to bleat and Molly quickly fumbled for the nightstand to shut it off. It took her two tries because Sherlock's arm snaking around her waist was incredibly distracting.

"Six A.M., time to get up," she squeaked as he pulled himself closer.

He began to inch the hand that had been at her waist up her side. "Not yet. We don't have to be downstairs for breakfast for at least an hour. It shouldn't take you more than thirty minutes to get ready if you pull your hair back into a ponytail and don't bother with makeup. That gives us thirty minutes to spend however we want."

Sherlock pressed a kiss against her shoulder. She could feel his warm breath through the thin cotton of her vest. His hand finished its slow journey upward, ending with his thumb brushing against her nipple. "I've got a few ideas on how we can spend the time."

Molly caught her breath, then let it out in a soft moan. "I'm sure you do, but it's going to take longer than that. My hair was still wet when we fell asleep last night and I can already tell it's turned into a tangled rat's nest. I didn't bring my straightener, so the quickest fix is going to be another shower."

She felt him smile against her shoulder. "Not what I was thinking of, but I'm flexible."

She giggled. "That would definitely take more than thirty minutes."

His thumb stilled as he lifted his head, obviously intrigued. "Really?"

"You can't just jump into something like that. There should be some lead up and if you want to actually bathe afterward . . . If you want to do it properly, then yes, really. Assuming the hot water holds out."

He blinked, then gave her a slow grin. "I'll pay to have Mrs Hudson install a larger boiler at Baker Street as soon as we get back."

Molly blushed, but she couldn't help smiling. "How will you explain the sudden need for more hot water? Tell her it's for a case?"

"Why lie? I'll tell her it's for sex. Trust me, she'll understand."

"Sherlock!" She slapped her hand against his bicep.

"Not good?"

"I don't know?" Although if he was already talking about informing his landlady as to the change in their relationship—in his own, extremely blunt, way—why should she argue? "Actually, it's fine. You're right, if anyone would approve of shower sex, I'm pretty sure it would be Mrs Hudson. You wouldn't believe some of the stories she's told me."

"Excellent. Now that we've finished discussing the proposed improvements to the plumbing at Baker Street, where were we?" He moved his thumb, lightly circling her nipple again.

She shivered and tried to hold on to her rapidly fading resolve. "We need to get up. Don't forget that Scott Hooper doesn't have your curls. You're going to have to deal with all this." Molly ran her fingers through his hair, thrilled that she finally had free rein to do so.

Sherlock groaned. "Don't remind me. Fifteen minutes?"

"Nope. Sorry."

Rather than giving up completely, he raised up on one elbow and leaned over her. "I could put on those glasses you seem to like."

"Oh, God. You noticed?" Molly covered her face with her hand, then spread her fingers to peek up at him.

He nodded and his lips curled upward in a smug smile. "I noticed. Why do you think I already had them on when I met you at the train station?"

"You needed to get into character ahead of time?" she guessed. Even as the words passed her lips, she realized how naive she'd been to think he wouldn't have deduced her unexpected fascination with his eyewear. They made him look scholarly, almost academic, like a naughty university professor who was contemplating bending the teacher's pet over his desk.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. He shook his head. "I needed to see if your reaction in the lab was an aberration, or if you were going to get hot and bothered every time I put them on."

Molly reached up and lightly smacked him in the arm. His bicep flexed under her hand. She couldn't resist trying to wrap her fingers around his arm. God, he was fit. He leaned down to nuzzle against her neck in retaliation, the barest brush of his lips felt like a white-hot brand against her skin.

"At one point, I thought you were about to crawl into my lap on the train," he whispered.

"You, ah—" Molly broke off with a gasp when the tip of his tongue flicked against her pulse point. "You noticed that, too?"

"Mmmhmm," Sherlock hummed against her before lifting his head to look at her. "I can't say I'd object if you wanted to give it a try on the train home. I would be more than happy to arrange for a private compartment."

His hair was a rumpled mass of inviting curls, his eyes were intently studying her face, and he smelled better than she'd ever imagined. For a long moment Molly couldn't remember why she was denying them both. "What do you want, Sherlock?"

His smile turned soft. The arm not supporting him rose so that he could trail his fingers along her jaw. "I want your hands on me. I want to touch you. Kiss you. Taste you. I want anything you'll give me. Everything." He slowly leaned closer until she felt his breath against her lips. "I want you."

Her eyes dropped to his mouth just as the alarm went off once more. She must have turned on the snooze function when she'd shut it off earlier.

Sherlock groaned and closed the tiny bit of distance between them to press a disappointingly chaste kiss to her lips. He pushed himself up and rolled to his side of the bed, glaring at the offending alarm as he went. "I really hate that thing."

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

Breakfast was an elaborate buffet that Sherlock had absolutely no interest in. He wanted to spend the hour before their first session walking the grounds.

They had discussed Anna's case as they prepared for the day. Sherlock was nearly positive they wouldn't find her hidden away somewhere at Happy Hearts, but he wanted to have a look around regardless. Molly had suggested waiting until the scheduled hike that afternoon, but he'd only rolled his eyes and said he doubted Simon and Michelle would appreciate him wandering off trail to have a "looksee" in the outbuilding.

While he impatiently waited in the dining room doorway, Molly grabbed a bagel and made their excuses to a few of the other guests who had issued an invitation to sit with them. "Scott's not really a morning person, so we thought we'd take a walk and explore a bit."

The man from the hot tub the night before winked as she walked past. Molly's polite smile was a bit strained as she joined Sherlock.

As soon as they were out of view of the others, Sherlock took her hand and dragged her out the front door. There was a bit of a nip to the air, enough to cause Molly to lament that their coats were up in their room. He hesitated for a moment, then lifted his arm and drew her to his side so she could huddle against him for warmth.

Molly hid her surprised smile behind her bagel, but he seemed to know what she was thinking anyway.

"Don't make a fuss. You were cold. If anyone looks out a window and sees us, it will appear as if we're out on some sort of romantic stroll like a pair of love-struck idiots. The staff here are desperate to witness any shred of evidence that their vapid relationship counselling works, and will automatically assume that-"

"Yep, got it. A smart man might have just left it at 'you were cold'."

He pulled them to a halt and looked down at her, frowning. "A smart man? What's that supposed to mean?"

She rolled her eyes. "For future reference, not everyone considers romantic walks to be a waste of time. Some people like that sort of thing. Luckily for you, I understand Sherlock speak and recognize that the point of all of that was that anyone who looks outside will see what they want to see."

Sherlock's eyes clouded for a moment, then he nodded. "Shall we, then?"

A quick glance through most of the windows give them disappointingly little useful information. They found what was most likely Michelle's office (Victorian era furniture refurbished in pastels and peaches, everything arranged just so, several framed photos of a grinning Michelle and Simon) situated near the front half of the building. Oddly, Simon's office (modern chrome and leather couch, sleek glass topped desk, not a single photo of Michelle or the couple anywhere in sight) was at the back, near the staff quarters and as far away from Michelle's as one could get.

They walked in silence for several minutes, which Molly didn't mind. She finished her breakfast, then snaked her arm around Sherlock's waist and simply enjoyed the fact that she could do it without worrying that she was crossing a line.

"Do you? Like all that romantic drivel?" he asked, seemingly out of nowhere.

She considered it, not wanting to give a flippant answer to the question. Sherlock wasn't one for small talk, if he'd bothered to ask then he truly wanted to know. "I don't dislike it. In moderation." Molly shrugged. "I like flowers once in a while, who wouldn't?"

He started to open his mouth and she quickly continued, "Candy is nice, but I'd much rather have a home cooked meal and quiet evening on the sofa, with a cuddle or two thrown in. I quite like getting dressed up and going somewhere romantic for a special occasion, but I wouldn't want to do it on the regular."

"Noted."

She wondered what he meant by that. Was it a good thing? A bad thing? His tone gave her no indication one way or the other. Did he think it would be more effort than he wanted to put into a relationship?

"Molly." He tightened his arm around her shoulders to pull her out of her spiralling thoughts. "I find nothing objectionable in anything you mentioned. I like quiet evenings in, and I imagine I might appreciate the odd cuddle from time to time. I know of several nice restaurants we could visit if I'm in-between cases. As Mrs Hudson can attest, I do have a slight sweet tooth; but I believe I would prefer something new to experiment on to candy or flowers. Should you ever wish to present me with a gift." He looked down at her with a small smile on his lips.

Molly smiled back. "Noted."

Sherlock led them toward the trees near the large outbuilding they had spotted during their search of the staff rooms the night before. As they walked across the browning lawn it became obvious the building must have been a garage of some sort. There was a gravel drive leading up to the far side of it, out of view of the main building.

He pulled her to a stop just inside the treeline not far from the garage. "I'm going to have a look inside. You keep watch and let me know if anyone comes this way."

"And how am I supposed to do that from over here, without being extremely obvious?" As far as plans went, it wasn't a terribly good one, she thought.

"You'll think of something." He disappeared around the back of the building. Molly was certain that she would not, in fact, be able to think of something. She crossed her fingers and hoped for the best.

Five minutes later, she spotted Sherlock striding back toward her. "Anything?"

He frowned and tossed an annoyed glare toward the outbuilding. "Nothing that leads toward Anna's current location. The bus is in there, along with an SUV and a sports car that is clearly unsuited to being driven out here. Mid-life crisis car, most likely Simon's, indicating he's restless and dissatisfied with his current circumstances." He stared into the distance, his eyes focused on something she couldn't see as he processed the small amount of new information he'd received. "It was a long shot anyway."

"I'm sorry."

Sherlock blinked and looked down at her. "Why? You had nothing to do with it."

"Yes, but . . . Never mind." Molly shook her head and glanced at her watch. "There's still twenty minutes before our first session. What do you want to do now?"

His expression turned from confused to lascivious in a heartbeat. Sherlock stepped forward and put his hands on her waist. He pulled her flush against him. "I can think of a few suggestions."

Molly laughed and lifted her face to him when he leaned down. Kissing Sherlock while he was wearing his glasses felt a little different than before, naughtier, almost as if they were roleplaying. For a moment she could almost picture herself behind an opulent desk admiring her hot, bespectacled PA as he pulled off his tie and started to pop open the buttons of his sinfully tight shirt.

Her hands skimmed over his biceps on the way up to wrap her arms around his neck. Sherlock grinned against her mouth, then kissed her even harder. He sucked her lower lip between his, then closed his teeth around the flesh with just the barest amount of pressure. Molly's knees threatened to buckle. She felt him begin to grow restless, felt his arousal becoming firmer where he pressed against her stomach.

By the time he trailed a string of biting kisses to her ear, they were both breathing hard. "Let's go to our room," he rasped.

"Not enough time," Molly whimpered in response. She pulled away, barely avoiding his grabbing hands as they tried to yank her back. She glanced around, then took one of his hands and led him deeper into the trees.

Sherlock looked as if he were about to argue, but ended up following her with barely a grumble. As soon as Molly could no longer see the villa, she turned and said, "Kiss me?"

He was on her in less than a moment, his mouth hot and eager against hers. She might have grinned at his enthusiasm if she wasn't feeling so desperate herself. Sherlock slipped his hand under her jumper, and violin calloused fingers ghosted against her lower back. Molly voiced her approval with a breathy, "Don't stop."

His hand moved up her side. Sherlock grunted in annoyance when he encountered the band of her bra. Molly's giggles turned into a gasp as he shoved the bra cup out of the way so that he could palm her breast. She felt him smirk at her reaction. She lowered her head to his throat and nipped the skin there, just over the spot where she could feel his pulse racing, biting hard enough to make him jerk against her.

His free hand grabbed her hip, holding her still so he could grind his erection against her. He lightly pinched her nipple, causing the sensitive bud to tighten and pebble. Molly sunk her hands into his hair, uncaring that she was destroying all his earlier efforts to tame his curls that morning. She scratched her nails against scalp and he groaned her name.

Molly slid a hand down his chest and stomach until she could cup his erection.

"Christ, you're going to kill me." Even as he complained, he continued to rock his cock against her hand, instinctively seeking friction. "How do you expect me to walk back in there like this?"

She grinned and pushed him back against the closest tree. "I don't."

"Wha-" His word cut off in a sharp gasp as she yanked his perfectly serviceable and annoyingly baggy button up from his waistband and shoved it into his hands. "Open."

Sherlock hesitated for a second, then started yanking shirt buttons free from their respective holes. In the meantime, Molly popped open the button at his fly and lowered the zip. She could see his erection straining against the dark grey material of his underwear, and she ached to hold his length in her hand. Molly lowered herself to her knees.

"Oh, fuck, you can't be serious?" He quickly scanned the area around them, confirming that they couldn't be seen by anyone who might look out one of the Happy Hearts villa windows.

"Unless you don't want to?" Molly bit her lower lip and waited.

"Believe me, I want." He reached down to brush his hand over her hair in a soft caress. "Are you sure this is something _you_ want? We're in the damn woods, anybody could hear us."

"Then don't make any noise." Problem solved as far as Molly was concerned. He seemed to agree because when she moved to push his jeans and boxer briefs down his muscular thighs, Sherlock rushed to help. He hissed when his erection sprang free and met the chilly air.

She had seen him naked the night before, beautiful in the dim light from the fireplace; but in the morning sunlight, looking aroused and thoroughly debauched, he was glorious. She wrapped one hand around his cock; the other found his hip before slipping across his taut stomach.

He _whined_ when she took him in her mouth, his abdominal muscles rippled under her hand. She moved slowly at first; sinking down on his length and then pulling back until only the head of his cock was still between her lips. Every other stroke she swirled her tongue across his glans. The rhythm changed when Sherlock's hips began to move toward her, silently urging her to take him just a little deeper.

Molly looked up at him as she continued to suck his cock. His eyes were nearly dark, the pupils blown wide with desire, as he watched her. She could see his lips moving, silently repeating the same word over and over.

Her name.

Given more time, she would have loved to draw the moment out, drag him to the brink of orgasm and hold him there until he begged for mercy; but they were expected in the villa shortly. Quick and dirty, then.

She released him with an obscenely wet pop and licked her lips, delighted with the way he was so intently focused on her mouth. Molly reached for his hand and brought it to her lips to drop an open-mouthed kiss to the centre of his palm, before guiding him to use that hand to cup the back of her head. Her hot breath ghosted across the glistening tip of his erection. She could feel him vibrate under the strain of trying to hold still, to keep from thrusting forward that tiny bit of distance separating his arousal from her mouth.

"How do you like it? Fast? Deep?" Her lower lip caught and dragged against his flesh. Sherlock groaned something incoherent. "Show me what you need."

She leaned closer and took only the head of his cock between her parted lips. He twitched. His hand flexed, the long fingers tangled in strands from her ponytail. Molly held perfectly still, waiting.

Suddenly, Sherlock's control broke. He bit out her name just as his hand tightened against the back of her head. His hips began to rock. Slow and shallow at first, as he eased toward Molly's limits; then picking up speed and depth when she slid a hand between his legs to fondle his scrotum.

"Molly?" he breathed, packing so many questions into that single, barely audible word.

She hummed her consent around his length. She felt him tense, felt his bollocks draw tighter, heard his breath hitch, and then he was coming in long bursts against her tongue.

Sherlock slumped against the tree for support, gently cradling Molly's head between his hands as he caught his breath. "That-that was . . . I can't think of the words. Why can't I think of words?"

Molly laughed, delighted that she'd managed to—temporarily, of course—short circuit the mind of the great Sherlock Holmes. "Why are we whispering?"

He held out his hands to help her stand, then pulled her into his arms and kissed her. "You told me not to make any noise."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** I apologize for the long delay in updating this, but I got hit with a case of writer's block, plain and simple. Anyway, here's "Wonderwall".

 **Part Six**

They were five minutes late to the morning session.

Molly tried to slip into the room as unobtrusively as possible. Unfortunately, the instructor had been patiently waiting for them to begin so the other guests had nothing better to do than gossip amongst themselves about the Hoopers. Molly slid into one of the empty seats set up in a half circle facing the front of the room and fervently prayed that the dirt stains on the knees of her jeans weren't as glaringly obvious as she feared they were.

Sherlock strolled into the room with a smug grin, as if he hadn't a care in the world. He'd barely made any effort to sort out the mussed mess she had made of his hair, merely smoothing it back once or twice with his hands. He took the seat next to Molly and lazily waved his hand at the man leaning against a book and pamphlet laden table at the front of the room, as if to silently tell him to get on with it.

Oddly, the instructor wasn't either of their hosts, it was the young man who had escorted them back to their guestroom after Simon had discovered them in the staff area the night before. What was his name?

"Now that we're all here," he began, arching a brow at Molly and Sherlock. "I'm Robbie, erm, Robert, and this is an introduction to . . . uh-" He glanced down at a several sheets of paper sitting on the table next to his hip. "Introduction to the love languages."

Marcy from the bus leaned toward Molly and whispered, "I love this class. It's so useful. Jonathan's main language is Acts of Service, but I'm more of a Physical Touch person."

"Oh, that's good," Molly replied as if she had a clue what the other woman was talking about. Marcy beamed.

Robert cleared his throat and launched into the session topic. "So, basically there are these five big ways to tell your partner you love them without actually saying you love them. Well, I mean, you do say it to each other, probably; but sometimes hearing the words doesn't do it for you. Wait, that's not-" He stopped and picked up one of the sheets of paper.

Sherlock stretched his legs out and tapped the toe of his shoe against her ankle to attract her attention. "He's unfamiliar with the material," he whispered low enough that no one else overheard him. "Keeps referring to his notes, won't make eye contact with his audience."

"So?"

"So, if he doesn't normally teach this session, who did?" Sherlock looked at her for a long moment, waiting for Molly to catch up to his train of thought.

Her eyes widened. "Oohh, you think it was Anna?"

"I think it's highly likely." He crossed his arms and watched Robert stumble his way through the session.

"It's not all about great big romantic gestures, okay?" Robert through his arms out to emphasize his words. "You have to recognize the little things, and really listen to what they mean. That cup of tea your husband brings you after a long day at work when you just want to sit down and relax. When she orders your favourite take-away for supper without you even having to ask. Back rubs when you're tired. Drawing you a bath or leaving you an unexpected gift, just because. Little compliments about how much you make her laugh or how nice she looks. Taking a walk together, and holding hands. Letting you decide what to watch on the telly for the night, even when you know they think 'Strictly Come Dancing' is absolute rubbish."

A few of the others laughed at that.

Molly found herself really listening to what he was saying. How often had Sherlock shown up at her door with a bag of fish and chips, or she'd found something interesting in one of the donated cadavers and made sure to send him a text to let him know? How many nights had they spent on a sofa, her reading a book and him in his mind palace, just enjoying being in the other's presence without needing to say a word? What did that mean?

It gave her something to think about.

Robert ended the session by handing out copies of a book on the "Love Languages" and several worksheets that the couples were supposed to work on together.

As they stood up to file out with the others, Sherlock pulled her to the side. "Go on up to our room, I want to talk to Robert for a bit; see if he can tell me anything useful. I'll meet you before lunch."

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

They shared a table with two other couples (thankfully not the ones from the hot tub the night before) at lunch, so it wasn't until they were back up in their rooms changing for the afternoon hike that they finally had a chance to talk about what, if anything, he'd learned from Robert.

"I was right," Sherlock began as he pulled a jumper over his head.

"Of course you were," Molly replied. She'd been enjoying watching him change out of his button down into an ugly jumper that would have made John Watson proud. If she didn't know better, she might have suspected that Sherlock had actually stolen it from John's closet. "What about?"

"It was Robbie's first time teaching the material." He disappeared into the loo to deal with his ruffled hair.

She followed and leaned against the doorframe. "Robbie?"

"He hates being called Robert, but Simon insists."

Considering she wasn't particularly fond of Margaret and chose to go by Molly, she couldn't really quibble. "Did Robbie say why he'd suddenly decided to take up marriage counselling?"

"He was reluctant to discuss any of the behind the scenes workings at Happy Heart at first, especially while we were still in the meeting room. I ended up convincing him that I was dying for a smoke, and since you were trying to get me to quit, I hadn't brought any with me. You know, the usual clichéd male bonding moment out behind the house, talking about our significant others and their unreasonable demands."

Molly narrowed her eyes and glared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. "Uh huh."

He gave up on smoothing his hair and turned toward her. "I said it was a cliché. What is more important is that it worked. A bit ago, the woman who normally handled the class quit without notice in the middle of the week. She was there for breakfast, but her room was cleared out by that evening. Robbie didn't see her leave, but Simon told the rest of the staff she'd received a phone call regarding a family emergency and chose to terminate her contract immediately."

"I'm assuming there was no phone call?" The more she heard about Simon, the more her initial dislike of the man seemed to be justified.

"None from her family, at any rate." Sherlock gestured for her to move out of the doorway. "Another employee ran the session last week, but hated it. Robbie admitted he volunteered to take over once he found out it paid an extra fifty a month."

"Did he say anything about the man Anna had been seeing?"

He frowned and shook his head. "No, annoyingly enough."

Sherlock picked up her jacket and tossed it to her. "Let's get this hike over with."

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

Molly was not in the best of shape, by any means; but she did enjoy the occasional stroll through the park during a lunch break, or the walk to the grocer from her house. She suspected several of the other guests barely managed that much. Several times Sherlock and their guide had had to help one of the other wives across a tricky bit of terrain or down a moderately steep hill. Molly suspected at least one of the women was much more interested in feeling Sherlock up than she was in communing with nature with her husband.

She could tell Sherlock was at the end of his patience by the time they trudged back to the Villa. There was almost two hours of "free" time before the next session on communication and honesty. The couples were encouraged to make use of the pool, the billiards table, the games room, or any of the other Villa amenities. Molly suspected she and Sherlock would be spending that time sneaking about the building as if they were staring in an old "Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew Mysteries" episode.

She was not wrong.

Nearly all the guest rooms on the first floor were occupied, and Sherlock had no interest in investigating the one that wasn't. He assured her that the likelihood of Anna being hidden away in the single empty room was non-existent. "I can tell you're concerned, but I assure you she's not chained up in the wardrobe. Or anywhere else in the building. Now, it's just a matter of deducing where she's gone. If I don't find anything useful by tomorrow, this entire trip will have been for nothing."

Molly tried not to take that personally. She knew he meant the case and not the changes in their relationship, but it was still so new . . .

He froze at the foot of the stairs that lead up to the attic space. Sherlock turned toward her and reached out to lift her chin so he could look into her eyes. "You know I wasn't talking about us, don't you?"

"Yeah. Of course."

He looked as if he didn't quite believe her. "You are also aware that this-" He gestured back and forth between them. "-would have happened eventually, regardless? Perhaps not as quickly and with such immediate . . . enthusiasm."

She had to smile at that.

"But it was going to happen, make no mistake. I had already decided that if you didn't accompany me on this case, I would have asked you to dinner after I returned. Not that I was expecting things to move quite so fast this weekend. I was hoping for a chance to talk about the possibility of us as, well, an us; I wasn't planning to try to lure you into my bed or anything of the sort." He rushed through the last bit, as if he were worried she was going to think the worst.

"So, you expect me to believe that bit was just a happy coincidence, then?" Molly asked.

Sherlock's eyes darted around the small hallway, before coming back to rest on her face. "Yes?"

She grinned. "Fair enough. For future reference, I would be delighted if you wished to attempt to lure me into your bed at any point in the future."

He leaned down and pressed a hard kiss to her lips. "Good to know. Now, we've got an attic to look through before someone realizes we aren't in our room, shagging like rabbits."

Sherlock hurried up to the door at the top of the stairs, then bent to do something to the doorknob while Molly kept an eye on the hall. Once he had the door open, he gestured for her to follow as he disappeared into the attic.

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

The last class of the evening would have been a huge waste of time if she'd actually wanted advice on how to improve her marriage, as far as Molly was concerned. After dinner, the men went one direction and the women the other. Molly had the great misfortune to spend an hour and a half listening to Michelle and the other women share tips on "keeping the spark alive". Most of those tips seemed to consist of buying expensive lingerie with gravity defying architectural wonders built into the bra cups, sexual acts that could potentially end with the sort of injuries one would fib to a doctor about, not feeling guilty about imagining that your spouse is actually your favourite movie star while you're getting hot and heavy if that's what it takes to get you to the finish (everyone does it, after all), and spending days at the spa to tighten pours and rejuvenate the skin so that you look as young as you feel.

A spa day did sound nice, she thought, but not a weekly necessity as Michelle seemed to be suggesting.

Eventually they heard the door across the hall open and the murmur of masculine voices that signalled the other session had broken up. Michelle took a few more minutes to wrap up, and then she sent the women off with a husky "Remember what we talked about, and have an interesting night" and a wink.

A wink!

Thankfully, Sherlock was waiting for her as soon as Molly hurried through the door. She took one look at his face and knew his session had been just as crap as hers.

"Useless?" she whispered as they made their way up the stairs to their room.

"Utter garbage," Sherlock replied. "You?"

"Same."

He grimaced as he unlocked the door to their room. He raised his hand in a half wave and nodded toward one of the other couples as they walked past; then Sherlock urged Molly into the room and quickly shut the door behind them. "Thank God we only have to sit through one more session tomorrow."

Molly couldn't agree more.

She had barely pulled her hair tie loose and began to run her fingers through her hair to detangle it when Sherlock came up behind her. He put his hands on her hips and playfully yanked her back against his chest. She could feel the beginning of an erection nudging against her backside as he left a short trail of tickling kisses down her neck.

She pulled free with a laughing "Sherlock", and let him back her toward the bed until the it hit the back of her knees. He wrapped his hands around her waist and tossed her onto the mattress, just hard enough to make her bounce. Molly giggled as he crawled onto the bed. When he leaned over to kiss her, she put her hands on his chest and held him at bay. "Don't you want to sneak out and look for more evidence?"

"I do." Sherlock assured her. "I need to get into Michelle and Simon's offices. If Anna left on her own, there should be a forwarding address in her employment file for tax purposes at the very least. But it will be hours before we can do that. In the meantime . . ." He lowered his head to nibble at her throat.

Molly's laughter morphed into a drawn-out whimper as he grazed his teeth against her skin. "I've created a monster!"

"Not created, unleashed." He lifted his head to look down at her, all puppy dog eyes and pouting lips. "I've already set an alarm. We've got an hour and forty-five minutes to kill, minimum, before we can even think of getting back to work. Assuming you don't have an objection to spending that time here, together, alone?"

She pretended to considered it for all of half a second. "Can't think of a single one."

Molly shoved with her hands and he obediently rolled onto his back. "Before anything else happens, that jumper really has to go."

Sherlock looked down at the garish mass of wool he'd been wearing since their afternoon hike. "Fair enough." He sat up and pulled it over his head, then leaned over the side of the bed to remove his shoes.

Molly kicked off her trainers and stood next to the bed so she could deal with her socks and trousers. She looked up to find him watching her. There was a momentary softness in his expression, then it was replaced with a heat that made her shiver with its intensity.

She hesitated for a few seconds, then closed her eyes and pulled her blouse over her head and tossed it on the floor at her feet, her bra immediately followed. Her eyes remained closed as she stood there, waiting for him to say or do something—anything.

"Oh, Molly. You are a work of art. Beautiful." There is a reverence in his voice that makes her cautiously look at him. He kept his eyes on hers for several beats of her heart. "Thank you."

She stood there, frozen in place, as he came around the bed to her side. "Thank you for trusting me not to hurt you again."

Molly held her breath as he lowered his gaze. He covered her breasts with his large hands, and she couldn't hold back a rough moan as her nipples hardened against his palms. The sound seemed to inflame him. He lowered his head to hers and kissed her as if his life depended on it. Sherlock dropped his hands to her waist and pulled her hard against his bare chest. She only had his muffled "bed" against her lips as a warning before she found herself flat on her back on the duvet.

Her giggles died on her lips when he slowly and very deliberately reached down to unsnap the fly of his jeans. He kept his eyes on her face as he lowered his zip and pushed the jeans and his pants down his thighs. Molly bit her lower lip at the sight of his cock, already beginning to grow firm and eager.

She started to ease her own knickers down her hips, and Sherlock shook his head. "Don't. Let me."

He stepped out of the last of his clothes and gestured for her to scoot toward the centre of the bed. The second her head settled against a pillow, he was leaning over her. Both of his hands pressed into the mattress next to her shoulders; she could see the muscles in his arms flex as he held his weight off of her, allowing only the barest of contact between his chest and the very tips of her breasts.

Slowly—slow enough that Molly's lungs began to burn as she held her breath in anticipation—Sherlock lowered his head until he could touch his lips to hers. She tried to pull him in closer, but he resisted with a brief shake of his head. He moved down her body, taking his time to kiss and lick and nip.

When he dipped his tongue into her navel, Molly sighed. When he curled his fingers into the sides of her knickers and pulled them down her legs, she shivered. When he nudged her thighs farther apart with his shoulders and looked up at her with a mischievous grin, she gasped. And when he began to flick his tongue against her clit, Molly cried out his name and arched off the bed.

Some small part of her recognized that he was using the things she'd shown him the night before—how and where she preferred to be touched—and that he was experimenting to find toe-curling ways to improve upon them. Good God in heaven, did he know how to experiment.

It didn't take long for Sherlock to have her on the edge of release. He lifted his head just long enough to urge her over, "You are so beautiful like this. Spread open for me. Writhing on my fingers. Straining against my mouth. I know you're close, I can feel you trembling. It won't take much, will it? Let go, Molly. Come for me."

He lowered his head and sucked her clit, and Molly fell. Her entire body tensed and clenched. She barely registered Sherlock's murmurs against her inner thigh, "That's it, Molly. My sweet, beautiful Molly."

When she came fully back to herself, her hands were buried in his curls and his head was resting on her stomach. Her legs slid off his shoulders to boneless fall at his side.

"Good?" he asked, as if there was any doubt.

"Mmmhmm," Molly hummed, not quite up to using fully formed words just yet.

She tugged on his shoulders, urging him upwards so she could kiss him. The taste of her was on his lips and tongue, a musky flavour she had no objection to. One at a time, his hands came up to sink into her hair and cup her face, leaving the majority of his weight supported by his elbows on either side of her. Her knees bent so she could cradle him between her legs. The feel of him, skin to skin from breast to groin, was glorious.

His erection was hard and instant; and as she drew his lower lip between her teeth, she felt him start to rock his hips into her mound. Molly knew it was a bad idea, they'd agreed not to have penetrative sex until they could get their hands on a condom, but he felt so bloody good. She shifted to let him settle deeper into the vee of her legs. He groaned into her mouth, not so much rocking as grinding his erection against her.

"Oh God," Sherlock rasped against her throat. "I can feel how wet you are, how wet I made you." He continued to move, his cock so temptingly close to her entrance, stimulating her with every roll of his hips.

Somehow, impossibly, she could feel tension beginning to build deep inside once more. Multiple orgasms weren't a rarity for her, but they were almost never this close together. Then again, she'd never had Sherlock growling filthy things in her ear while he rutted against her.

"Can you come again?" he asked just before he nipped at the sensitive flesh along the side of her throat.

Molly threw back her head with a sharp gasp. "Yeah." She eased a hand between their bodies and started to rub small circles around her clit, nothing too direct as she was still a little sensitive from earlier.

His movements slowed as he pushed himself up on his hands. She realized he was watching her touch herself, seemingly fascinated. Molly bit her lip as he continued to rock against her, gentler now. Her fingers brushed against his cock as she dipped them lower to find the evidence of her arousal. Rather than returning to her clit, she strained to grasp his erection and wrap her wet fingers around his length.

Sherlock's arms trembled under the strain of holding himself still above her. When he lifted his head to look at her, his pupils were fully dilated with desire. "I want you, Molly. So much." His voice was husky and deep, and it seemed to reverberate deep in her core. "Want to be inside you."

The need to have him was almost overwhelming. She pulled him down to her and pressed an urgent kiss to his lips. "I want that, too. As soon as we get back home, we can stop at the first chemist we see and get-"

"Or we could put each other out of our misery now." Sherlock slipped his hand under his pillow. She was about to remind him that they had agreed to wait when he held a square foil wrapper up for her to see.

Molly snatched the condom out of his hand and examined the packet. "Where on Earth did you get this?"

His shoulders slumped, and she got the impression that her question wasn't the reaction he'd been hoping for. Sherlock dropped to the side and rolled over onto his back. He cleared his throat and failed miserably at trying not to look like a guilty child who had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "When I talked to Robby after the morning session. After I bummed a smoke, I also mentioned that I hadn't really expected the retreat to work out as well as it was and . . ."

Molly turned onto her side to face him. "And what?"

"And that I was kicking myself for not bothering to bring any protection. After witnessing that kiss in the hall last night, he seemed to understand what I was getting at."

"He just gave you a condom?" She looked at the packet again and double checked the expiration date.

"No." Sherlock waited until Molly's full attention was back on him. "Three condoms. And he sold them to me for twenty quid, which seemed a bit like extortion but I wasn't really in the mood to quibble at that point."

"Really?" Molly grinned and leaned over Sherlock. "A little desperate, were you?"

"A lot desperate." Sherlock snaked an arm around her back so that he could cup the back of her head and bury his fingers in her hair. "Still am."

She let her gaze follow the line of his body down his chest to his groin and the erection that clearly validated his claim. Her hand followed the same path, lightly scratching her nails against his skin. His abs tightened under her teasing touch as he sucked in a harsh breath.

Just as the flat of her palm grazed his cock Sherlock grabbed her wrist and growled a warning, "Condom, Molly."

She couldn't help the blush that stained her cheeks as she tore open the foil packet and carefully rolled the condom down his length.

He held out his hands for her to grasp and urged her to straddle him. "Don't make me wait any longer."

Molly giggled as she settled over him. "You make it sound like it's been weeks rather than a day, Sherlock."

He gripped her hips to help her find her balance, then looked up at her with an expression she couldn't quite name. "Longer. I've wanted this, wanted you, for months."

She froze above him and he groaned. "Molly. Don't toy with me, I don't have the control for it. Not this time."

How could she resist the desperate plea in his voice? She reached down to hold his cock, then slowly lowered herself onto his length bit by bit. It had been so long since she'd been with a man, and Sherlock was well endowed (something she had speculated on more than once, based on his height and the size of his hands and feet); she found herself grateful that he had taken the time to ensure she was fully aroused.

It was difficult not to move once he was fully seated, the urge to ride him was there; but she knew a moment to let herself adjust was necessary. Sherlock seemed to understand. Other than the dig of his fingertips into the flesh of her hips, he remained still beneath her. After a few seconds, she nodded.

"Now?" he asked, his voice was rough and low.

Molly nodded. "Now."

"Thank God" was the only warning she had before Sherlock took charge.

She revelled in the gruelling pace he set, the thrust and retreat of his cock, the bruising grip of the hands around her waist. She fell forward and braced one hand on the headboard, the other next to his shoulder. Sherlock's harsh grunts, Molly's stream of "Yes, fuck yes!" and other barely coherent praise for man beneath her, and the rhythmic creak of the bed filled the room.

"Come for me, Molly. Whatever you need, take it."

She groaned at the need in his voice. Molly held on to the headboard with one hand and licked the fingers of the other before reaching down to where they were joined. It took a few seconds to find the perfect counterpoint to their coupling; but once she did, it only took a few circular brushes against her clit for her to climax for the second time that night.

She fought to keep her eyes open so that she could watch Sherlock's face as his own orgasm overtook him. He threw his head back against the pillow, sweat dampened curls plastered to his forehead, teeth bared as if he were in pain. His hips surged upward one last time, and Molly trembled as an aftershock rippled through her body.

Sherlock ran his hands up her back to grasp her shoulders. He pulled her down to his chest and blindly sought her mouth. The kiss started out wild, all teeth and tongues; then it eased into languid brushes of lips and breaths.

Once their heartrates slowed, Molly carefully rolled to the side and Sherlock got up to dispose of the used condom in the loo. He hesitated in the bathroom doorway on the way back, and she realized he was unsure of how to proceed now that the urgent need to have sex had abated. She smiled and held out her arms.

He slid into the bed next to her and put an arm around her, silently encouraging her to cuddle against his side. She had always suspected that Sherlock would be a cuddler once he trusted someone enough to let them get physically (and emotionally) close.

It took her a moment to work up the courage to ask the question that insisted on circling around her mind now that she wasn't overwhelmed by hormones. "Why didn't you say anything?"

To his credit, he didn't try to play coy and pretend he had no idea what she was talking about. She wanted to know why he hadn't told her he was interested in her prior to their weekend at Happy Hearts. "Not my area, remember? I was terrified I was going to ruin our friendship if I screwed up."

"I would think if you were ever going to ruin things between us, it would have happened ages ago. You're kind of an arse." She nuzzled her head against his shoulder in reassurance.

"And yet, you . . . like me." They both knew he almost used a completely different word entirely.

"Yep. I . . . like you." She deliberately echoed him. "And you?" she couldn't help asking.

"Oh, yes. I like you, too." He tightened the arm around her shoulders and gave her an affectionate squeeze. "A lot. More than I probably should, considering what I do and how often I put the people I care about in danger. But I do, Molly. I like you. More than like. I just-I'm not sure I'm ready to . . ."

She nodded. "I don't think I am, either. Not quite. And that's okay. As you said last night, we don't need declarations of love and marriage proposals right now."

She felt his chin come to rest on the crown of her head. "Are you sure?"

"Very."

They held each other for several minutes. Molly had just started to grow drowsy when Sherlock's fingers began to drift up and down her arm. She lifted her head in time to see his lips form a playful smirk. "We've still got an hour before we can sneak downstairs."

Suddenly her body was wide awake, the earlier drowsiness vanished like smoke in the wind. "What do you have in mind?"

He slid a hand under his pillow and pulled out another foil packet. "It would be a shame to waste that twenty quid."

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

Their second time together was slower, gentler, but no less passionate.

She had expected him to become completely focused on the case once they left their room; and he did, to a certain extent. As they crept through the ground floor, taking care not to be seen, he would occasionally put his hand on the small of her back or reach out to brush his fingers against hers—almost, but not quite holding her hand—as if to reassure himself that she was still there.

Michelle's office gave up nothing useful. While Molly dug through the file cabinets for anything that interesting, Sherlock logged into Michelle's computer (Molly didn't even bother asking how he deduced the password). The address on Anna's payroll file matched the one her brother had provided for their parents.

Sherlock even pulled up the Retreat's financial records, which were up-to-date and neatly organized. "Too neatly," he sneered. "Someone has combed through all this with a fine-toothed comb to make sure everything looks perfect on paper, which clearly means it's fake."

"Do you think Anna discovered something fishy going on with the money and they got rid of her?" Molly hoped it wasn't anything as sinister as that.

He considered it for a moment. "Possible, but not probable." He shut the computer down and gestured for her to finish up. "Let's see what Simon's hiding."

Simon's office was slightly more interesting. His file cabinets were full of promotional materials, including several different versions of the Happy Hearts brochure that Sherlock had shown her the day he'd first asked her to pretend to be an accountant's wife. One of them had a front-page blurb about a famous award winning author/marriage counsellor leading some of the sessions. Another had photos of the Villa that looked . . . off. They had clearly been retouched to make the building look less aged and lived in. The captions touted "recently renovated" and "newly updated features".

She was about to call Sherlock over to look at them but he was intently involved in whatever he'd found on Simon's computer. Molly grabbed one of each of the brochures and stuffed them into her pocket.

"What is it?"

Sherlock didn't even glance up from the laptop screen. "Our Simon has been a naughty boy. Or should I say Michelle and Simon have both been naughty." He turned the laptop so that she could see what he'd been looking at.

It appeared to be an accounting program, but it was far more complicated than the one she used to keep track of her bank balance. "What have they done?"

"This one has the same figures as the one on Michelle's computer." He minimized it and pointed to another one. "This one shows numerous withdrawals and balance transfers that don't appear on the first. Extravagant dinners. Lease payments for that sports car outside. Funds that had been allocated for building updates in Michelle's accounts have been diverted to cover a second mortgage payment. According to the second account, they're barely staying in the black thanks to an influx of income from an investment firm." He frowned and ran his hands through his hair in frustration. "None of that, however, tells me what happened to Anna."

They finished searching Simon's office without finding anything else of note. Molly remembered from their walk that morning that the curtains had been tightly drawn in the room next to the office. "It can't hurt to look in there. I mean, we've tried everywhere else."

Two minutes later, Sherlock had picked the lock and they were standing in a large storage room.

The area closest to the door was a jumble of poorly stacked boxes labelled "Tax Forms" and "Payroll". The farther back they went, the neater the stacks became as if someone had taken the time to put them away with care rather than just tossed them in the first available spot. The two windows were blocked by boxes and covered with thick curtains that looked as if they hadn't been opened in years. The light from the sputtering florescent bulb barely touched the deep shadows along the walls, the ones that hid who knew what kind of vermin or spiders behind the rows of boxes.

Sherlock knelt to examine a spot on the floor. To her it looked exactly like every other bit of the floor; but he must have found something interesting because his sharp gaze flew up to the stack of boxes before him and he smirked.

"Someone has been back her fairly recently, and they've gone to a bit of effort to hide something. You can see where they've moved these boxes out of the way, then shoved them back."

She couldn't see anything of the sort, but he was on a roll and she wasn't about to interrupt him while he was deducing.

He pulled at the boxes until he was able to squeeze past them. Sherlock emerged seconds later with a very large duffel in his hands and a triumphant grin on his face. They both dropped to their knees beside the bag as he unzipped it.

Inside were clothes—a lot of clothes—all wadded up and shoved into the bag without a care for creases or wrinkles. He handed her a small makeup bag as he continued to dig through the rest of the contents of the duffel.

"Nothing unusual here." Molly held the items up as she named them. "Foundation, coverup, moisturizer, neutral lipstick, birth control-"

Sherlock snatched the packet of pills out of her hand and examined it. "Why would she voluntarily leave her birth control behind? Obvious answer would be that she didn't. So who packed and hid the bag?"

"You think this is Anna's stuff, then?"

"Yes." He dropped the pills and the makeup bag into the duffel, then yanked the zipper closed. "Come on. I need to think."

Luck was on their side as they made it up to their room without being spotted with the duffel in tow.

Sherlock dumped the large bag onto to the chairs near the fireplace, then returned to her. "Go ahead and go to bed, Molly. I'm going to be up for a while yet."

As much as she wanted to stay up and try to help, she knew that not distracting Sherlock while he was working was probably the best thing she could do for Anna at the moment.

She tilted her face up to him, hoping for a brief kiss goodnight; but he had another idea entirely. Sherlock pulled her close and gave her a long, tender kiss that left her breathless before he settled into the empty chair and lost himself in his mind palace.

Molly remembered the brochure's she'd pilfered from Simon's office while she was changing for bed. She left them on the table near Sherlock's chair, then turned off all but one of the lights and crawled into bed.

Sometime later, the bed dipped as Sherlock slid under the sheets behind her. She opened her eyes to a dark room and rolled toward his warmth. "Did you figure it out?" she sleepily asked.

He pulled her against his chest and pressed a quick kiss to her hair. "Go back to sleep. We'll talk about it in the morning."


	7. Chapter 7

**Part Seven**

Sherlock didn't bother trying to hide his curls in the morning (although he did put on the glasses that never failed to make her tummy—and lower—clench). Molly wasn't sure if that was a good sign or not. It could mean that he was too focused on the case to care about maintaining the Scott Hooper persona; or it could mean that he'd decided there was nothing more to gain by remaining undercover and he no longer cared if someone recognized him as the famous Consulting Detective.

Before she could work up the nerve to ask, he grabbed their jackets and tossed hers toward her. "Not here. We'll talk outside."

"Do you think the room is bugged?" Molly's cheeks flushed at the thought of who might have been listening to them the night before.

"Of course not. I'm just tired of looking at all this cheap reproduction garbage Michelle and Simon are trying to pass off as antique Victorian."

Molly wasn't sure what authentic Victorian era furniture was supposed to look like as she tended to buy her sofas and chairs strictly for comfort and functionality rather than looks; so, she was more than willing to take Sherlock's word for it. Everything in the room seemed posh and expensive (if a little worn in some places) to her.

Sherlock ducked into the dining room just long enough to get a bagel for Molly. "You get cranky when you're hungry."

She put it into her jacket pocket and thought about what Robbie had said during his session. About doing things to show someone you loved them without necessarily saying the words. Her answering smile was, perhaps, a bit brighter than a simple bagel warranted, but Sherlock didn't say anything about it.

He led her outside and into the trees behind the Villa. Molly knew there would be no repeat of the other morning; yesterday's playful mood was nowhere to be seen. They went deeper into the woods than the day before, stopping next to a ravine when Sherlock decided they were far enough away from Happy Hearts for his liking. The shallow creek at the bottom of the ravine provided a soft background babbling noise as he finally told her what had been bothering him all morning.

"I'm not going back with you. Last night convinced me that someone here had a hand in Anna's disappearance, and I mean to find out who. I'll take the bus to the train station with everyone else, and then I'll have to track down the local police and see if I can convince them that there's enough evidence to get involved." He continued to face the ravine, but Molly could almost feel him watching her from the corner of his eye. His shoulders were tense and curved inward the slightest bit, as if he were bracing for something to hit him.

 _Or someone to hurt him._

It occurred to her then, that he was most likely waiting for her to complain or whine about being left behind. Yes, the train ride home would be boring as hell without him; but there was a missing woman out there somewhere. It wasn't as if he was planning to abandon her in the middle of the countryside on a whim. "All right, if you're sure there's nothing more I can do. Do you want me to call John once I have mobile service? Perhaps he or Greg—Lestrade—could come out here and help?"

He turned his head to examine her face, as if searching for some sign that she was more upset then she let on. Seeing none, he let out a deep breath and gave her a soft smile. "I hesitate to pull John away from his family just yet; and I imagine the locals will be calling the Yard to verify my credentials, which means Lestrade will hear about it soon enough." He rolled his eyes. "Let's just hope Donovan doesn't get her hands on the phone first."

Molly smiled, then bit her lower lip. "Will you let me know when you've found her?" _When you're coming home?_

Sherlock nodded. "I'll try to text when I can, keep you updated."

"Thank you."

"I can't guarantee what my schedule will be like when we get back."

"You never can, Sherlock," she huffed affectionately. "After all these years of knowing you, I'd be an idiot to expect you to suddenly have a normal life now."

He smiled with a deep warmth that softened his normally sharp features, and reached up to touch her cheek. "I may not be around for days, or even weeks at a time."

"I know." Was he trying to warn her off for some reason?

Before her old insecurity had a chance to rear its ugly head, he brushed a feather light kiss across her forehead. "But when I get back, I'll find you. When I'm not on a case, I'll want to come to your place, and eat take-away, and ignore your horrid cat while we watch crap telly, and kiss you until we crawl into your bed together."

"My cat isn't horrid, and you know it." He smirked and she smiled.

"You can come to Baker Street. We can run experiments together, drive Mrs Hudson up the wall. It will be fun." Sherlock's deep voice promised all sorts of tempting things.

As if he needed to try entice her any more than he already did. "I'd like that."

"And then we can crawl into _my_ bed together."

Molly laughed. "I'd like that, too."

He leaned down to kiss her, and she raised her face and closed her eyes to receive it . . . and nothing happened. Molly cracked one eye open and frowned to find that he'd frozen just a breath's span from her lips. His eyes had focused a point somewhere behind her. She turned her head to see what held his attention, but the ravine looked exactly the same as it had before. "What is it?"

"There. On the edge of the drop." Sherlock stepped around her and carefully knelt next to a patch of browning, brittle grass and dead leaves. He gestured to a bit of exposed soil. "These are old, more than a week, closer to two or three. Made when the ground was wet and all this dirt was mud. I'll need to find out when the last rain was." He pulled out his mobile, then cursed at the lack of service. "Damn it."

When she bent down to get a closer look at it, she finally saw what he'd noticed. There were several deep furrows that had been made when the soil was wet, that had held their shape as the mud dried.

"Something—no, someone—tried to pull themselves up here." Sherlock leaned over the side of the deep ravine. "More marks down there, and signs that the creek has risen considerably at some point in the last month." He turned and began to lower himself over the side, and Molly almost reached out to try to stop him as he disappeared.

She stepped closer to the edge so she could see him again. "Are you sure that's safe?"

Sherlock pointedly looked down at the lazy knee-deep water he was already standing in, and then back up at her. "Short of a sudden torrential downpour and a flash flood, I'll be fine."

"It does happen," she hissed.

He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut and took a deep breath. "You're right, it does. But not today."

Molly glanced at the sky, then back down at him. "It didn't even occur to you to check before you hopped in, did it?"

"Nope." Sherlock popped the 'p' and sheepishly shrugged. "It was worth it though, because I think we just discovered what happened to Anna."

"She fell into the water?" She shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly chilled at the thought of all the things that could have happened to the young woman, wet and cold out in the woods for weeks.

"Or she was pushed. I'm nearly positive someone else was up there with her. Those scratches are where she tried to pull herself out, but she didn't make it. Looks like she tried to use this root as a foot hold, but it snapped." He looked around, then bent over and pulled something away from a stick that had been protruding from the mud. Sherlock rubbed it between his fingers, then held it up for her to see. "Cotton cloth, tan coloured. Same as the trousers the retreat employees wear."

He pointed at several spots. "Signs of a hard fall down here. She may have been injured. If she went in when the water was high, she could have been carried downstream. Come on!"

Sherlock began to wade through the water, following the current. She kept pace from above, ducking under the odd low-hanging tree branch to keep him in sight. It wasn't long before Molly realized she was walking downhill, while the creek bed remained level. Eventually Sherlock stopped.

"Here." He crouched down and pointed to what appeared to be tree roots sticking out of the muddy dirt. "Bent, broken, yanked loose from the mud." He looked around intently. "The water would have been higher, up until this point, the current stronger. This would have been her first chance to drag pull herself out."

His long legs and strong frame allowed him to easily hop out of the ravine at its lowest point, and he stood next to Molly on the bank. "Now, where would she have gone? Back toward the Villa? No. Not if she was pushed. Where are you, Anna?"

He began to pace. His eyes devoured every detail on the ground, searching for any sign of the missing woman.

"Sherlock?"

"In a minute. Let me think. I need to think." His voice wasn't harsh, but she could sense his growing frustration in the agitated way he moved.

"Sherlock," Molly tried to get his attention once more.

He turned toward her with a flourish that would have been impressive if he'd been wearing his Belstaff. "What?"

"Look!" She pointed toward the sky, toward the barely visible plume of smoke some distance off.

"I always miss something," Sherlock grumbled to himself. He reached up to cup her face between his large hands and planted an enthusiastic kiss against her forehead. "Well spotted. We'll make a detective out of you, yet."

"I don't want to be a detective," she called after him, having to hurry to keep up as he moved between the trees with a new, urgent purpose. "I'm perfectly happy where I am at Barts, thank you very much."

He looked over his shoulder as he held a large branch to the up for her to pass under. "I'm rather happy with you at Barts, myself."

Sherlock stilled her with the touch of his hand against her shoulder. "It wouldn't be the same without you there. I don't trust anyone else with that aspect of my work. Not like I do with you. Even before I-before I realized how I . . . I've always known how good, how brilliant, you are at your job. At all the extra tasks and demands I've asked of you over the years. Even when you used to stammer and blush at the mere sight of me, you always pulled it together as soon as we began to work." He smiled ruefully. "You forced me to up my game, to push harder to meet your exacting standards in the lab. You have helped make me a better detective."

His hand rose so that his fingers could brush against her cheek in the softest caress she'd ever felt. "And a better person. When we get home, I'm going to show you just how much I appreciate you, Molly Hooper."

She tilted her face deeper into his touch, then turned her head to ghost a kiss against his fingertips. "I'm going to hold you to that, Sherlock Holmes."

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

The building was small, Molly thought. Obviously large enough for a fireplace or a wood burning stove, but she doubted it was much bigger than that. There was no possible way anyone would use it as a permanent residence, would they?

"Not a house, no," Sherlock answered the question as if she'd spoken it out loud. "Barebones shelter, meant to keep a hunter out of the elements and warm on periodic visits, but nothing more. Could have been built by a fisherman rather than a hunter. The ravine has to lead somewhere, perhaps a larger tributary or lake. That structure over there is probably a drying rack, for game or fish."

Molly didn't particularly care what the shack (and it definitely qualified as a shack in her eyes) was used for, she just wanted to know if Anna—or someone who knew where the missing woman had gone—was inside it.

Sherlock cautiously approached the building and knocked on the door. "Hello? Sorry to bother you, but we've wandered away from the road, and I'm afraid we've become a bit lost."

She narrowed her eyes and tilted her head, silently asking what he was doing.

He frowned back. "There could be a man with a rifle in there. I'd rather not end up shot because I've aggravated a trigger-happy local."

He knocked on the door again, with a bit more force. "Hello, is anyone in there? We saw the smoke."

They both heard the faintest sound from inside the shack. A hoarse call for help.

Sherlock reared back and kicked the door near the worn latch. The second kick resulted in the door buckling inward. The smell of stale vomit and faeces hit their nostrils as soon as they stepped inside. The shack was as small as Molly had guessed it would be. The only furniture was a simple cot near a squat pot-bellied stove and an old fashioned ice chest. The sole light source—other than a filthy window—was the stove, and it was barely giving off enough heat to mitigate the early morning chill. She shuddered to think of how cold the drafty building must get during the night.

Huddled on the floor near the stove, wrapped up in a nest of blankets that must have been pulled from the cot, was a barely conscious woman.

"Anna," Sherlock confirmed for Molly's benefit.

Judging from the litter of discarded high energy food wrappers near the nest, and the stench emanating from the rag covered pool of excrement in the corner ( _She's become too weak to drag herself outside_ , Molly realized), Anna had been in residence for a while. Molly could see a disturbingly small pile of food that the other woman must have scavenged and hoarded from the supplies that had been left by the last occupant of the shack. Only a package of jerky, a chunk of hard bread, and half full jug of water remained; barely enough to stretch another day or two at the most.

"We've been looking for you, Anna. Your brother will be very happy that we've found you. How badly are you injured?" Sherlock must have come to the same conclusion she had, Anna was in no shape to move on her own.

"It hurts. So much." Anna's hand fluttered toward her legs, then fell back onto the blankets as if she were too exhausted to hold it up.

Molly dropped to her knees beside her and pulled the blankets wrapped around Anna's legs free, trying not to jostle the extremely pale woman any more than absolutely necessary. Molly winced sharply as she got her first look at Anna's leg.

"Sherlock." She tried to keep the anxiety out of her voice, but Anna's fresh tears told her that she'd failed.

"'s bad, isn't it? Am I gonna die?" Anna whimpered.

Sherlock kneeled at Molly's side and reached for Anna's hand to offer some measure of comfort, although his eyes continued to return to Molly's hands every few seconds as she assessed the worst of Anna's injuries. "We're here now. We'll get you to hospital. Just a bit longer, I promise."

The most immediate concern was Anna's broken leg. Somehow, she had fashioned a crude splint using tree branches and material from her Happy Hearts shirt; but Molly could see that the skin had been broken and there had been a lot of bleeding. Molly was amazed that the other woman had managed to find shelter and survive this long.

Despite Anna's efforts to clean the wound, there were unmistakable signs of infection. If it had spread to the bone . . .

Molly forced a reassuring smile to her lips and leaned over Anna, needing to ask her some questions. "Hello, Anna. My name is Molly, and I'm a doctor. I'm here to help you, all right? Can you tell me if anything else hurts, sweetheart?"

Anna's free hand sought out her stomach. Her eyes tried to remain focused on Molly, without much success. "Will he be okay?"

Molly's heart sank, and she knew what she'd find even before her hands carefully sought the firm bump under Anna's torn shirt. There were no obvious signs of external abdominal trauma, but that wasn't enough to reassure Molly. Her eyes met Sherlock's and she knew that he understood her fear. "Sweetie, do you know how far along you are? Anna? Anna!"

She'd passed out without a word of warning.

Sherlock hefted the slight woman into his arms, and waited only long enough for Molly to bundle the blankets around Anna for warmth shouldering his way past the broken door, still drunkenly hanging off its hinges. He led the way toward the ravine, which they then followed back toward the Villa.

At some point Anna came to, but her fever and the pain from her barely supported broken leg made her inconsolable and incoherent.

It was not an easy hike. Molly did everything she could to ease the way for Sherlock and his burden, moving branches and pointing out partially hidden tree roots; but his arms were trembling and his lips were tight with strain by the time they neared Happy Hearts.

They heard several voices calling for them as the building came into view.

"Breakfast ended more than an hour ago. They think we've gone missing," Molly guessed.

Sherlock grunted in acknowledgement.

Robby was the one who saw them first. He ran toward them, then froze as soon as he recognized the exhausted woman in Sherlock's arms. "Anna? Oh my God, guys, it's Anna!"

He rushed forward to help, but Molly waved him back before he could touch anyone. "Don't jostle her, she's hurt. I'm going to need your medical supplies. Bring me everything you've got. We need to get her inside and warm, quickly."

"Right, right." His eyes skittered from side to side for a moment as he worked details out in his head before he turned around and yelled at another man who had come running. "Nate, go tell Jenny to start a fire in the East lounge. Uh, we're going to need blankets, hot food, coffee, the first aid kits, all that. And then find Michelle or Simon and let them know what's going on."

Nate nodded without a word and sprinted back toward the main building.

"This way." Robby pointed. He stuck by Sherlock's side, hands up and ready in case Sherlock stumbled or needed to hand off Anna.

Jenny was kneeling before the fireplace, feeding the small fire in the grate, when Robby hurried into the East lounge and immediately cleared several decorative cushions off the sofa nearest the fireplace.

"Nate said someone was hurt?" Jenny asked. Her face went white in shock when Sherlock carefully deposited Anna on the sofa and then stepped back.

Molly quickly took his place and started barking orders, uncaring as to who scrambled to fulfil them as long as the items she requested showed up in her hand. She could hear Jenny asking Sherlock if Anna was all right, but the bulk of her attention was on the first aid kit someone passed her.

Marcy appeared as if summoned by magic, and she immediately knelt by the side of the sofa with a softly spoken, "Tell me what to do."

Between the two of them, they managed to calm Anna and get her leg cleaned, dressed, and splinted in preparation for her trip to hospital. Marcy bathed Anna's face and hands and offered soothing words to the young woman. Molly noted that Sherlock had disappeared at some point, most likely to make arrangements for Anna's transport.

Someone must have found Simon and Michelle because finally they pushed through the crowd of staff and guests hovering just inside the room and doorway. Both of them looked stunned, but Molly couldn't help but think that Michelle's shock seemed to be overshadowed by something darker.

Simon looked back and forth between Anna and Michelle, his expression growing angrier with each passing second. He shook his head and stared at his wife. "What did you do?"

Michelle blinked and tore her gaze away from the injured woman on the sofa. "What?"

"What. Did. You. Do?" He grabbed her shoulders and shook her hard enough that Robby intervened, pulling Simon away from his wife.

She stared at him for a moment, her lips twisting as if she were fighting to keep from shouting.

And then she broke.

"This is your fault!" Michelle jabbed an immaculately manicured nail in his direction. "You just couldn't keep it in your pants, could you? I ignored all the other times. Pretended I didn't know where you were going when you'd sneak down to the staff rooms or out to meet one of the wives."

She sneered at the woman who had been giggling in the jacuzzi with her husband.

Michelle continued to rant. "The guests always left, and the girls on staff never complained as long as they got an extra bonus in their pay when you ended it. 'Sleeping with Simon' was practically a rite of passage around here, and I never complained. But you had to go and get this one pregnant!"

"You bastard." Robby stepped away from Simon, shaking his head in disgust and leaving his boss to face Michelle's anger without any back-up.

"You got her pregnant. Do you have any idea what that will to do to us if it gets out?" Michelle waved her hand around the room. "To all this? We'll be ruined."

Simon began to protest and Michelle cut him off. "Our investors are going to want their money back, Simon. The money that was supposed to go into improving this dump. The money you've spent on your cars and women."

"And you," he snarled back. "You took your fair share for your boobs and face and your little boy toy Marco."

Michelle gasped.

"Oh yeah. You thought I didn't know about Marco? I knew." Simon threw his hands up. "I didn't care, but I knew!"

Michelle looked seconds away from committing homicide. "At least I didn't get Marco pregnant!"

"At least I didn't—What _did_ you do to her?" Simon growled.

"Yes, Michelle." The others parted without a whisper of protest to let Sherlock back into the room. He stepped between the bickering couple to take his place at Molly's side. "Please, tell us what you did to Anna."

"I didn't do anything," she protested. "We went out into the woods to talk. I just wanted to make sure she wasn't going to cause trouble, and I offered her some money to-to take care of it. The ground was wet from the storm, she must have slipped. Next thing I know, she fell into the ravine." Michelle looked around beseechingly.

"And you just left her there?" To his credit, Simon looked utterly horrified.

"She pushed me back in," Anna spoke up, her voice still hoarse from her earlier tears. "When I tried to crawl out, I told her I was hurt. I told her I thought my leg was broken. She just-she just grabbed my hands, and I thought she was going to help me, but she pushed me away and I fell back into the water. I couldn't keep my head up, I couldn't breathe."

"Christ, Michelle." Simon stepped back from his wife with a look of disgust. "What the hell is wrong with you? She could have died."

"I don't . . . I didn't . . ." Michelle's expression hardened. "I wish she had, then we wouldn't be in this mess."

Another Happy Hearts employee burst into the room. It took Molly a moment to recognize him as the bus driver that had brought the guests to the Villa on Friday. "I've brought the car around front. It's ready to go whenever you are, Doctor."

"Thank you, but that won't be necessary." Sherlock shook his head, only taking his eyes off of Michelle and Simon long enough to put his hand on Molly's shoulder to reassure her. "It's an hour and a half drive to the closest hospital, over bumpy roads with no real medical equipment on hand. I managed to contact the authorities and they've arranged for the hospital to send a helicopter for Anna. It should be her in less than twenty minutes."

Molly reached up and took his hand, squeezing it in thanks. "Right then, let's keep her as comfortable as possible until it arrives."

"As for you two," Sherlock returned his full attention to Michelle and Simon. "The local constable has asked that you remain where you are. He'd like to have a word with both of you."


	8. Chapter 8

_*Fair warning – I am taking huge liberties with the UK train system. HUGE. Private train compartments are either a thing of the past or impossible for my usually reliable Google-Fu skills to find. However, I had a certain scene that I wanted to end my story with so I am going to take a bit of creative license. Please forgive me, it's for a purely smutty cause._

 **Part Eight**

Molly would have preferred to have Sherlock with her for the long ride back to the train station, but he had remained at the Villa at the behest of the police. Instead she had to field all manner of excited questions from the other guests by herself.

"Did you two know that girl had been missing?"

"How did you find her?"

"Did you know about Michelle and Simon?"

"Is your husband a cop?"

She was sorely tempted to tell them that he wasn't her husband at all, he was Sherlock Holmes the famous Hat Detective; but she ended up shrugging and offering, "Something like that."

Marcy stood, ignoring the admonishment of the bus driver, and made her way down the aisle to take the seat next to Molly.

"Is she going to be all right? Anna, I mean?"

Molly had no doubt Anna would recover physically. Mentally, however . . . She suspected Anna would be dealing with the trauma of the last few weeks for some time to come.

Not that she was going to mention that to Marcy, who was currently watching her with a hopeful expression. Molly put on her most reassuring smile, the one she'd perfected during her residency when she'd still worked with living patients and their anxious families. "Now that she's getting proper medical care, I think she'll be fine."

Marcy nodded several times, then leaned closer and lowered her voice. "And the baby?"

Molly's reassuring smile morphed into something genuine. "I filled the medics in on what we knew about her condition, and they were able to locate a strong foetal heartbeat while they readied Anna for the flight."

The other woman heaved a huge sigh of relief and leaned back in her seat. "Thank God for small favours. That poor girl has been through enough. Do you think she'd mind if Jonathan and I went to visit her at hospital in a day or two?"

"I don't think she would." Molly touched the back of Marcy's hand reassuringly. "You were very comforting at the Villa, I'm not sure I would have been able to keep her calm without your help. My, uhm, Scott might be able to get some contact information for Anna's brother, if you'd like to give him a call and arrange something."

Molly put Marcy's number in her phone and promised to text the promised information the next day. The rest of the ride to the station wasn't quite as annoying with Marcy next to her, acting as a buffer to the noise and questions from the other guests.

The bus unloaded at the train station without incident. Molly couldn't help scanning the crowd as she waited for the train, hoping to catch a glimpse of her curly-haired detective even though she didn't actually expect that he'd appear. He'd still been deep in conversation with the local police when the bus had pulled out of the Villa drive.

She made her final goodbyes to Marcy and Jonathan, who were heading a different direction, and boarded her train. Molly sighed at the sight of the empty seat across from her, and resigned herself to a boring journey. She looked out the window and watched the movements of the crowd, listened to the sounds of arrival and departure announcements over the Tannoy and the faint bleat of police siren in the distance.

"Excuse me, Doctor Hooper?"

Molly turned away from the window to find a train conductor standing in the aisle. On instinct, she leaned down to grab her purse, intending to dig out her ticket in case he needed to see it. "Yes?"

"I apologize, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to move." He gave her one of those customer service smiles, the kind that fairly screamed 'We both know I'm simply attempting to placate you to keep the situation from escalating'.

"Move? I'm sorry, but why?"

"There's a problem. With the seat. A . . . malfunction." Molly noted that he refused to look her in the eye as he spoke. "I have been authorized to upgrade you to a private compartment in First Class, to compensate for the inconvenience."

Her pulse began to speed up. She wasn't naïve; perfectly normal train seats didn't suddenly have the sort of mysterious malfunction that came with a move to First Class. Not unless Sherlock Holmes was involved.

She gathered up her suitcase and purse and followed the conductor through two carriages. The third carriage had a small corridor on one side that was lined with doors that, presumably, opened to several private compartments.

The conductor stopped in front of one. "Here you go, Doctor Hooper. Please enjoy the rest of your journey."

Molly waited for him to walk away, staring at the curtains blocking her view into the private compartment until he had exited the carriage. She knew it was very unlikely, but she couldn't contain the rush of hopeful excitement at the thought that Sherlock might be waiting for her inside.

Unfortunately, she was doomed to disappointment as the little compartment was empty save for a pair of benches facing each other and a large tinted window overlooking the people outside. Only the memory of Sherlock's promise to find her when he came home kept her from kept her from pouting. He wasn't with her now, but he would be soon enough.

She hefted her luggage onto the overhead shelf and dropped onto one of the benches. For such a small area, there really was a fair amount of leg space. Molly wondered how much it would cost to upgrade to First Class every time she needed to travel by train. More than she would feel comfortable spending, most likely.

The train had just begun to roll forward when the compartment door was wrenched open. Molly gasped at the sight of Sherlock, dishevelled and out of breath.

"I was beginning to think I wouldn't make it in time." His grin as he tossed his suitcase onto the overhead shelf next to hers was infectious. He turned and struggled to get the door properly latched, then settled into the seat across from hers.

She'd thought he was incredibly sexy as Scott the accountant from Ipswich, but the man sitting across from her now was the answer to every single naughty school girl fantasy she'd ever harboured in her entire life. Sherlock's usual mussed curls, Scott's glasses, legs spread apart so that his feet rested to either side of hers, a mischievous smile hinting at all sorts of sinful things on his lips . . .

"How did you?" Molly asked, more than a little distracted by thoughts of all sorts of interesting ways to earn extra credit from Professor Holmes.

"Turns out one of the constables is the uncle of a woman I helped escape from an abusive marriage. Once everything was dealt with at Happy Hearts, and Michelle was taken into custody with Simon following behind in his soon-to-be repossessed sports car, I explained that I needed to catch a train. Uncle Frank offered to give me a lift. Sirens and all."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously." He tilted his head and watched her, making her skin prickle in anticipation under his scrutiny. "It's a shame about that problem with our other seats. I suppose it's very lucky they were able to provide us this compartment, instead."

"Oh, yes. A terrible shame," she laughed, and he smirked in response. "How did you manage that, by the way? Our mobiles didn't work until we were minutes outside of town."

"It seems," Sherlock began in an 'I'm sharing a secret' sort of voice as he put his elbows on his knees and leaned toward her. "That along with sirens and colourful lights, police cars also have radios with far better reception than our mobiles."

Molly blinked. "Is that even legal? Using a police radio to change your train reservations?"

"I haven't been arrested, so let's just assume that it is."

"Fair enough." She worried her lower lip for a moment, then asked the question that had been running through her mind since he appeared. "And, uh, the glasses?"

He reached up to touch the frame of the glasses in an innocent gesture that was clearly and utterly insincere. "These?"

"Yes, those." Molly rolled her eyes. "The case is over, surely you're not still pretending to be Scott the accountant?"

"Well . . ." Sherlock drew out the word as he deliberately popped open the uppermost button of his shirt. "I believe we discussed the train ride home while we were in bed yesterday morning." His deft fingers slipped another button free. "Didn't we?"

Her mouth went dry and she had to swallow just to be able to speak. "I- I seem to recall something like that."

Two more buttons slipped loose in quick succession. Sherlock pulled his shirt tails free from his trousers and flicked the last shirt button open. "We can discuss it again, in exacting detail, if you come over here."

Another time she might have been embarrassed by how quickly she stood up, how eagerly she took the step to cross the small compartment; but the heat in Sherlock's expression wiped any hint of self-consciousness from her mind.

Molly started to sit next to him, but he shook his head and slid one hand over his thigh. "Nope. Over here."

She bit her lip and looked toward the door. The curtain was still drawn across the window.

"I locked it when I came in," Sherlock assured her. She didn't bother asking how he knew what she was thinking, it would have wasted valuable time that could better be spent having her way with a certain Consulting Detective.

"Planning ahead?" she teased.

"Let's just say I was feeling hopeful." Sherlock held out his hand and wiggled his fingers.

Molly laughed as she allowed herself to be guided onto his lap, facing him with a knee settled on the seat on either side of his hips. Sherlock's hands moved to grasp her waist, steadying her against the sway of the train car. Once she was comfortable, Molly leaned down to brush her lips against his. "Is this what you were hoping for?"

"Close." He leaned closer in an effort to chase her kiss. "Ideally, there would be less clothing and—Fuck, Molly!"

She had rolled her hips, pressing her centre against his cock. Molly was extremely pleased to discover that he was already half-erect and growing firmer with each passing second. "Good?" she asked as she did it again.

Sherlock's head fell back against the headrest, his eyes fluttered closed as if he wasn't able to keep them open. "Indescribably."

She would have giggled if he hadn't suddenly wrapped his fingers around her ponytail and gently tugged her head back to expose her neck to his eager mouth. Instead, she gasped at the feel of his hot breath against her throat and the velvet slide of his tongue against her pulse point. Molly jerked when he gently bit down on her sensitive skin. She pushed his loose shirt off his shoulders with one hand as the other cradled his head closer, urging him to be less gentle, to bite harder, to . . .

"Mark me," Molly begged. "Leave me proof that you want me. I don't want to wake up tomorrow and think this weekend was just a dream."

"Not a dream." He released her ponytail and lifted his head, making sure she could see the truth in his eyes. "I have wanted this for so long. Wanted you. Not just sex. I was absolutely serious when I told you I wanted everything you were willing to give me. Everything."

"Oh, Sherlock," Molly sighed. She sunk her fingers into his hair and pulled him into a kiss that seemed to last forever and yet not nearly long enough.

He nipped and licked his way down her jaw, back to the spot that had made her beg earlier. She'd asked him to mark her, and he did. He held her with a hand on her back, just between her shoulder blades, while the other burrowed under her jumper. "Why do you wear so many layers?" he complained against her throat.

"I get cold," Molly replied, although she leaned back and let him pull the jumper over her head. His fingers immediately fell to the buttons of the blouse she'd been wearing beneath it.

"I'll keep you warm," he promised, before kissing her once more. Her blouse slid down her arms, and was quickly followed by her bra. He immediately put his hands around her waist and yanked her up onto her knees so he could lavish attention on her breasts.

Molly reached up to grasp the overhead shelf with one hand, and buried the other in his hair. She gasped when he used his teeth on her nipple, then sighed his name when he soothed the love bite with his tongue.

He panted something against her skin.

"What?" Molly hissed, pulling on his curls so that he lifted his face.

"Pocket."

She lowered her bum back to his lap, and looked at him in confusion. "What?"

Sherlock lifted his hips, nearly causing her to tumble backward, and dug into his trouser pocket. He triumphantly held up a condom. "Last one."

"Let's make it count." Molly grinned as she slid her hands between them to cup his erection.

His eyes fluttered shut, and he grew even harder under against her palm.

"No," Sherlock panted. He shook his head, and urged her off his knees. "No more of that. Clothes off. Now."

Molly quickly kicked off her flats and stripped off the rest of her clothes. Sherlock didn't even bother undressing fully. He opened his fly and pushed his trousers and boxers down to his calves before rolling the condom over his eager erection.

She grinned as she reached out and pulled the glasses off his face before tossing them onto the seat behind her. "We're definitely keeping those. You have no idea how many fantasies I've had since I first saw you wearing them."

"I promise, we can play dirty professor and naughty student later; but I need to fuck you now."

God, she loved the way he said that, the way he practically growled with his desire for her. She straddled his lap again. They both moaned as she grasped his cock and slowly eased down. Molly rolled her hips a few times until they managed to catch the rhythm of the train. She leaned forward to brace her hands against the back of the seat, and shifted her more of her weight to her knees to increase her range of motion.

He scooted forward. She briefly wondered what he was doing—it couldn't have been comfortable to slouch down with his arse balanced on the edge of the seat—then the angle and intensity of his thrusts changed. The tiny part of her mind that wasn't focused on the feel of him inside her realized that he was using his legs for leverage. Sherlock grabbed her hips, forcefully pulling her down with every upward surge of his hips and flex of his thighs.

Molly could barely catch her breath. A string of increasingly higher pitched pleas escaped her lips. "Don't stop, don't stop. Fuck, Sherlock. Don't you stop."

"Never," Sherlock gasped. He moved his hand between them, his thumb seeking her clit. She jerked at his touch, her inner muscles clenched around his length. He growled his approval. "So responsive. Never going to get enough of this. Never."

She grabbed his shoulders and dug her nails into his skin. The sound of his voice drove her toward her peak. When he pulled her closer with his other hand so that he could take her mouth, his lips hot and wet against her own, she came.

Sherlock groaned and pumped his hips twice more, straining to get closer, deeper, as he found his own release.

Molly fell against his chest, nearly boneless. Her thighs trembled and ached from supporting her weight for so long. Sherlock wrapped his arms around her back and refused to let her go when she tried to pull away.

"Not yet. Still basking in the afterglow."

She moved her face from where she'd had it pressed against his neck to find him smiling at her with the softest expression she'd ever seen.

Molly smiled back.

"Come to Baker Street with me."

"Tonight?" She sat up, and this time he let her slide off his lap into the seat next to him.

His smile dimmed, then disappeared almost entirely. "Is that a problem?"

"No!" Molly rushed to reassure him. "God, no. I just thought . . . I mean, we've been together all weekend, I thought you might need some time to yourself." She reached out to grasp his hand, hoping that he'd understand that she had been surprised rather than unwilling.

"Ahh. I'm positive I will, at some point. I'm notoriously bad at being sociable." He tightened his fingers around hers. "However, if I'm lucky enough to catch a good case tomorrow, you may not see me for a few days, so I would like to spend this evening with you. We could stop at yours to check on Toby first. We could pick up take-away. Give me a chance to tell Mrs Hudson about that new boiler."

Molly laughed and leaned her head against his shoulder, not caring for the moment that she was still naked on a train that would be pulling into the station in less than fifteen minutes.

Sherlock dipped his head to press a quick kiss against her hair. "We, uh, we don't have to have sex. I know you must be tired after the last few days."

Her snort was embarrassingly loud in the small compartment. "Oh no. We're definitely having sex."

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

Molly froze at the sound of someone bounding up the stairs to 221B, her mug of coffee halfway to her lips. She looked down at the far-too-large dressing gown she was wearing, the one that clung to her body in several places because she hadn't bothered to dry off after she'd stepped out of the shower, and winced.

 _Please don't let it be one of Sherlock's clients. Or anyone from Scotland Yard._

John burst through the closed (but not locked, apparently) door with a burst of early morning caffeine fuelled energy. He swung around with a quick turn on his heel once he realized the sitting room was empty, then stopped dead when he saw Molly standing in the kitchen.

"Morning." She leaned back against the counter and tried to appear nonchalant, as if there was nothing odd about being half-naked in Sherlock's kitchen. "Coffee? There's more in the pot."

"Uh, no, actually." John shook his head, clearly bemused. "I've already had some. Mrs Hudson insisted on trying to feed me up while she asked all sorts of questions about the plumbing company Mary and I used when we got the guest bath redone. Something about needing to replace a boiler."

He stared at her for a long moment, his gaze taking in her wet hair and borrowed dressing gown. "And now I'm beginning to understand why she started laughing as soon as she mentioned it."

"Really, John. It should have been obvious from the moment you walked in," Sherlock admonished his friend as he joined them in the kitchen. He was wearing lounge pants and another dressing gown, but his feet were bare and his hair was damp.

He reached behind her to get his own mug out of the cabinet. "You really should thank her for keeping you distracted for the last twenty minutes."

John grimaced.

Sherlock shrugged. "Would have been longer if the water hadn't gone cold."


End file.
